


Copy That

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Clone Gangbang, Clone Sex, Clones, Clones Just Wanna Have Fun, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Cunnilingus, Double Oral Penetration, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Double Vaginal Penetration, F/M, Fivesome - F/M/M/M/M, Fluff, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Gangbang, HoloNet (Star Wars), Holoporn, Humor, It didn't exist, Jedi Luke Skywalker, Mara Jade is a lucky girl, Minor Character Death, Multi, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot As Excuse for Porn, Porn With Plot, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, Sixsome, Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Erotic Adventures of Luke Skywalker, Threesome - F/M/M, Triple Penetration, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, believe it or not, in case that wasn't already clear, so I wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: Mara Jade is a very lucky girl.In other words, yes, this is the clone gangbang you've been looking for.
Relationships: Mara Jade/Clone, Mara Jade/Clone/Clone/Clone/Clone/Luke Skywalker, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker Clone, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker Clones, Mara Jade/Original Character(s), Mara Jade/Original Male Character
Comments: 139
Kudos: 93
Collections: Attack Of The Clones





	1. The First Clone

Nothing was going right. From the moment Mara Jade arrived on Callos, she had a bad feeling about this mission that had no connection with the devastated landscape before her. Probably should have asked Skywalker to come, instead of keeping him in the dark about her plans. Perhaps the dense atmosphere Mara felt weighing heavy in her lungs was nothing more than guilty conscience. After all, they had been through a lot together, back on Wayland. Yet somehow she hadn’t wanted to trust him—burden him—with this.

After she’d killed Luuke, Skywalker’s twisted doppelganger, Mara felt truly free for the first time in her life. Free of the Emperor, free of the Command, free of the Empire… And Skywalker had _thanked_ her, certainly not questioned her actions. However, when she’d recovered enough to review some of the information Karrde’s people had “liberated” from Wayland’s dataservers, she’d realized the job wasn’t quite finished.

“Not by a long shot,” Mara muttered, stepping around a muddy crater and checking her wrist navi to make sure she was in the right place. The Empire’s armies had thoroughly obliterated most of this world; its people had long since emigrated elsewhere once resources were destroyed. There weren’t many landmarks left, but she should be close…

They all had underestimated the insanity, capabilities, and ambition of the mad clone of the Jedi Jorus C’baoth. Not content with one duplicate of his desired apprentice, the recovered data Ghent had sliced proved her worst fears realized: C’baoth had five—five _more_ clones of Skywalker hidden around the galaxy. The records were remarkably complete—and C’baoth had begun his growth attempts over a year prior, meaning if she didn’t hurry, the replicas would reach maturity.

Mara only hoped that she had gotten to the first abomination before it had been released. Or escaped. Ducking under a rock ledge, she stood before an uneven, manmade portal, dented and rusted. The access code Ghent had given her worked, the thick slab of reinforced duracrete grudgingly creaking open, a stale wind escaping the vault.

Fingers clutching Skywalker’s—her—lightsaber, Mara stepped inside. A faint glow came from the end of a long corridor to her left. Silently, she glided down the passage, surprised that the door whooshed open smoothly as she approached. 

Taking her entry swiftly, back angled against unseen enemies, Mara scanned the room.

She heard a sharp inhale of breath, but didn’t immediately see its owner, eyes narrowing as she examined the dimly lit area. It was expansive and open…outfitted with a sofa, small table, one plasteel chair, and a flickering holoscreen—the space’s only light source. Shadows danced along the walls as she slid along the perimeter. The invisible occupant was watching one of those stupid romances that annoyed the spit out of her—like where the Queen of Naboo or whoever fell for the exiled freedom fighter from Rishi and they wound up living happily ever after in the most inane and contrived manner possible. She hated holodramas on principle for insulting her cultural intelligence, and in the abstract for the sentimental myths they perpetuated.

“Hello,” said a voice.

Sithspit. Not just a voice. A very _recognizable_ voice. Mara ignited the blue blade of her lightsaber, turning toward the darkened corner where the clone was standing.

Skywalker’s clone—his _second_ clone, as she’d killed Luuke, the first—took a step back. Its eyes were round, hands empty, his chest…bare? Why wasn’t he dressed? The smooth silhouette took another step to the side. Kriff, he—it—was naked. Mara’s fingers tightened on the hilt of her weapon as she moved with a purpose towards the figure. Clothes or no clothes, she was going to destroy it.

“Hello,” it said again, uncertainty and fear shading the word. Mara’s eyes narrowed. She doubted the clone had much chance at conversation, since it slithered out of its faux birthchamber. Astonishing, that it could speak at all. 

“Can…Can I help you?”

“You can die,” Mara informed it. “I’m going to kill you before you hurt anyone.”

“Kill me?” The clone repeated her threat as if the words weren’t processing correctly. “Before… before… What have I done? What will I do?”

She faltered. It was true, this clone hadn’t attacked her. And if it had never been outside this facility, it was doubtful C’baoth had been the one who released it. But instead of answering the question, she asked one of her own.

“How did you learn Basic?”

The head of tousled blond hair tilted towards the fluorescent staccato of the holo’s glow, and stepped out from the shadows. Its hands were held up as if she were about to haul him down to a detention block. “I watched the screen. I grew to understand.”

It had taught itself? Mara blinked, her eyes drifting downwards at what the clone’s new position had revealed below his waist, then swiftly yanked them back to that familiar face, grasping at anything to renew her conviction. Seeing Skywalker naked…even his clone…

“Who released you? Are they still here?”

Again confusion met her queries. It was Mara’s turn to jerk her head, indicating the empty Spaarti cylinder across the room. “You got out of that somehow.”

He—it, dammit, she had to think of it as an it—nodded in understanding. “I just…climbed out. I don’t know why I was in there. I haven’t seen anything on the holos to explain it.” He shrugged, now more at ease despite his nakedness. “I think I have amnesia.”

“You don’t have amnesia,” Mara growled. “You’re a clone.”

This information obviously stunned him. As she watched him struggle with the revelation, she couldn’t help but notice how _unlike_ Skywalker he actually was—none of the character of his face, the lines that had been etched by smiles and the scars carved by violence. The clone’s pale body was smooth, unmarked, with only a stray mole or two…

She’d seen Skywalker shirtless a few times on Wayland … and before that, changing tunics when they’d shared a shuttle… The Jedi had quite a variety of unfortunate souvenirs left on his skin… In fact, she could see them perfectly in her mind’s eye—apparently her brain had cataloged each occasion in exquisite detail.

Cursing under her breath, Mara tried to think, far too distracted by her own infernal memory. It was tempting to close her eyes to concentrate, to banish pictures of Skywalker’s torso, but that wouldn’t do at all, so she was stuck staring at this…specimen. She hadn’t planned on having a conversation with her enemy. Entirely nude at that.

“So…” The clone took a step towards her, “people always kill clones? Are they illegal? All of them? I know there was a war… But I didn’t fight in the Clone Wars, that was a long time ago.” He pointed to the screen again, where the simpering female lead was rejecting the uncouth and scandalous attentions of a wealthy yet wicked suitor. “I watched a docuseries about it.”

Mara swallowed a groan. This was bringing up all sorts of ethical questions that required more time or stomach than she had. There were four other clones besides this one, probably still in their Spaarti cylinders and unbirthed…unhatched, whatever…much less difficult to destroy. Admittedly it was harder to attack when her opponent was not just unarmed, but disarming. She could do it, she _would_ , just—

“Why do you want to kill me?” 

That voice, that earnest, calm voice. Mara wanted to rip out its vocal cords and lop off its handsome head, but instead she lowered her lightsaber, knowing it was a mistake to answer and unable to stop herself. Her days of cold-blooded killing didn't feel so distant, but she’d lost the taste for it—an inconvenient reality. Still, she was convinced this clone was evil, even if its true nature wasn’t revealed by current circumstances. Maybe pushing a little would bring out that aspect of its programming…offering it opportunity or threatening it.

“I am _going_ to kill you,” she correctly evenly, “because you shouldn’t exist. You have an evil purpose. You’re a copy. A bad copy.”

The clone looked down at its naked body in self-appraisal. With deliberation, it evaluated thoroughly, even lifting its feet to examine the soles. By the time it met her eyes once more, Mara thought the temperature in the room had gone up more than a few degrees.

“I have seen many species of sentients on the holo. I am human, like you. I don’t appear to have any deformities. If I am a copy, I believe I am a good copy.” He smiled tentatively. “Maybe your information is wrong? And I’m a human?”

Mara frowned. This wasn’t going to play out how she wished. She definitely should have asked Skywalker to come—he would have had the patience to deal with this bantha shite, know what to do. She did not.

“You’re _cloned_ from a human. That _doesn’t_ make you human.”

“It doesn’t?”

Maybe it did. Mara couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. She waved a hand in his direction. “Don’t you have any clothes?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I have thoroughly searched the residence. There are sheets and towels, which I use for sleeping and bathing. There is no clothing.” A pause. “Does this mean you won’t kill me?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mara admitted. “I can’t think.”

“Because I’m not wearing clothes?” One eyebrow lifted, a perfect mirror of Skywalker’s face when he thought he was being funny. His farmboy sense of humor rarely was successful, to her mind, but the efforts themselves were comical nonetheless. And why was she thinking about this now?

“That’s one reason,” she snapped at the naked figure. Her stomach growled, an audible rumble in the durasteel-lined walls. 

The clone peered at her like _she_ was the aberration in the room—the biological thing that didn’t belong.

“Can I offer you some food?” 

“No.”

Ignoring her, the clone walked over to a recessed wall just to his right. Mara saw it had been outfitted with a food synth. She also saw he had a perfect ass. Stars. Seconds later, the scent of something fruity and soothing wafted through the air.

“I said no.”

“Yes, you did. However, I have learned from holofilms that many human women will say they do not wish to eat when they are, in fact, hungry.” The clone carried a serving tray to the small table and set it down. “Maybe your desire to kill me is related to hunger.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“I think killing someone you don’t know simply because they exist is stupider,” the clone returned. It no longer seemed intimidated, but still moved carefully, like she was a skittish nekarr kitten that might bolt at any moment. It took a cross-legged position on the sofa, hands on knees, staring openly at her. Skywalker also liked sitting like that, but this clone made it obscene. If it was a calculated distraction, it was a good one. Warily, Mara walked to its side, taking care to keep her eyes fixed firmly above his perfect sternum, then turned off her plasma blade.

“Here,” she said, slapping binders around his wrists. “You saw these in your holos, right?” The clone nodded. Mara returned to the table and spun the single chair to face him, straddling it, blaster held loosely in her hand. 

“We’ll talk for a minute.”

“And then you’ll kill me?”

“Probably.”

At her words, all too human emotions flickered across Skywalker’s cloned face—distress, fear, sadness, anger, and finally, something not unlike amusement.

“Then I hope it’s a long conversation.”

~~

It was a long conversation. A very long one. In the bunker, there was no way to keep track of time—no way to see if any of Callos’ three moons had risen. Truth be told, even before she’d put the clone in binders, Mara had known she wasn’t going to be able to terminate the thing as planned. Giving up on logical justifications to do so, she began providing openings for it to attack, to find a reason to end its existence in self-defense, but it never seized a chance. She left her blaster within its reach, fingering her saber as she pretended to take a bite of the offered food. Next, one of her vibroblades “dropped” just next to his fingers while she turned her back. 

Nothing.

The clone was obviously starved for company—his holovids didn’t talk back, after all. He told her he’d learned to speak from the broadcasts, repeating dialogue once he started to understand words. Sometimes, he told her as if confessing a dark secret, he liked to guess at what the actors would say next.

Apart from the pirated holo signal, there were no electronics, no comms and no weapons in the bunker. It seemed odd, but a quick check told her he’d been telling the truth about their absence. Probably a security measure by whomever had first turned it into a prison. 

The clone had no answers for her, but it was full of questions. She answered most of them, mainly to repeat to herself why she was here—C’baoth was insane and deserved to die, his creations were the same. After some time, the one she’d been dreading came.

“Whose clone am I?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you know?” He leaned forward, those well-muscled shoulders contracting, calves uncrossing to give her an even better display.

“Yes, I know.” The answer was quite literally—nakedly—staring her in the face. 

“Personally? You know my father?”

Mara scoffed, her jaw tightening. “He’s _not_ your father. An unwilling donor. He’s the original and you’re a copy. Someone created you without his knowledge or permission.”

Tears welled in those sky blue eyes, and Mara grimaced. She had no desire to make this clone cry, even if emotions seemed to indicate healthy psychological development. It hadn’t been rushed into training or indoctrination like Luuke had, that much was clear… Biting her lip, she looked away, hearing one loud sniffle and then another.

“Stop that.” It didn’t come out as forcefully as she’d intended.

“I’m sorry,” it hiccuped through reddened eyes and watery gasps. “I never felt this sad before. Sometimes the holos make me sad, though,” he admitted. “But not like this…not like now… I always thought…”

She didn’t need him to finish, receiving the end of the sentence through the Force. … _I had a real family._

“Clones don’t have families,” Mara said softly, trying to be sympathetic without being encouraging. Not very pleasant, to sense his thoughts. Luuke had been a corruption, proving Force-sensitivity in clones was not a good thing. Whatever abilities this one had wasn’t a positive sign, to her mind.

“You could be my family?”

The sentence was so ridiculous she was speechless. The clone misinterpreted her silence. 

“Not my mother, of course. Maybe you could be my wife? Or my cousin?”

“You’re crazy.”

The clone wiped his still-brimming eyes with the back of a wrist. “Crazy like that clone that made me? Or the other clone like me that you met?”

“Not exactly like them, but yes.” An original, different kind of crazy, she’d give him that. At least this one didn’t seem to be homicidal.

“Did they want to marry you?”

“No!” Mara gaped. “What in the seven hells are you talking about!?”

The clone pointed at the holoscreen as if she could benefit from the same education he’d enjoyed. And yes, now that princess or duchess or whatever from the Core was celebrating a gaudy and well-attended wedding to her childhood sweetheart from some tragically war-torn planet, judging by all the military uniforms and crutches in the crowd.

“People get married all the time,” the clone spoke slowly, as if reciting something that he didn’t wholly understand. “Life partners or social unions. They are alone, and then they become a family. It’s very common in the afternoon holofilms. Especially for soulmates.” He smiled, that blinding smile far too similar to the original. It made her weak, despite the inane words spilling from his lips. “I would marry you.”

“I wouldn’t marry _you_ ,” Mara managed, sputtering. “Real life isn’t like a holo.”

“Oh.” The clone fell silent, thinking. He seemed to accept whatever she told him as truth, thank the Force. Otherwise, she probably already would have blasted him. 

“What’s my name?” he asked, after a moment.

“You don’t have one.”

“What is my … donor’s name? My original’s name.”

“I’m not going to tell you that.”

“You think I will harm him, like the bad clone.”

Mara sighed, no longer certain of anything. “It’s just not something you need to know.”

“Do I look like my donor? Exactly?”

Mara couldn’t help but stare at the question, eyes dropping to his toes and moving up his lean legs, lingering perhaps a little too long on that too-perfect cock, then over the muscled abdomen, defined chest and arms, prominent collarbones, handsome jawline, and dimpled chin.

“You look a lot like him,” she allowed. At least the parts she was familiar with.

“I want a name. If not his, something for me. To be called.”

“Name yourself, then, don’t ask me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mara,” she spat in annoyance, then cursed as the syllables left her mouth. “But that doesn’t matter,” she added, trying to recover.

“Mara,” the clone said happily. “I will name myself something like Mara…” He rested a finger on his lips, tapping in thought. Some gesture she was positive he’d seen in a stupid holo.

“No,” she objected. This she knew something about. “Clones take a name similar to their donor, usually one letter different. And my name has nothing to do with you _or_ your donor.”

“You won’t tell me my donor’s name. So I will choose a human name that is made up of letters like your name, with one letter different since I am a clone.” 

The voice was Skywalker’s, but the clone’s logical delivery and speech syntax were unlike anything she’d ever heard from the Jedi’s mouth. He said this last as if he didn’t entirely believe it, but Mara sensed acceptance in the Force. The truth was hard to ignore, once it was illuminated. She knew that better than anyone. And this clone was intelligent—self-educated and polite.

He began going through the aurebesh alphabet, playing with sounds, starting with aurek. “Mara…Marb…Marc. Marcus is a human name. I watched a holosports race with a driver named Marcus.”

“Did he win the race?” Mara asked for no reason whatsoever.

“Yes.”

“Hmph,” she grunted.

“Marc is a good name. A positive name. I will be Marc.” He smiled, folding his arms and propping one ankle on the other knee. “One letter different from Mara.”

“Fine.” It was easier than arguing, easier than thinking of him as ‘it,’ but more dangerous too. 

“Please take me with you, Mara. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

She didn’t know that she had a choice. Mara wanted to scream in frustration. This mission had been a bad idea. At least if she hadn’t taken the initiative to come to kill this clone—Marc, what a name—he would have died alone and harmless on a forgotten Outer Rim planet. Her shoulders hardened and hands clenched, fingernails digging into her palms. She had to deal with him. And rational thought had pretty much ceased at this point, thanks to the view. 

“I am not a bad copy. I promise.”

A snort at that. “I can kill you anytime,” she threatened, getting to her feet. “And I’m definitely going to kill the other clones when I find them.”

“I know,” Marc said softly.

“Fine. Grab whatever you need to bring. Let’s get out of here.”


	2. The Second Clone

It was a long trip from Callos to Kamparas on the _Raised Ante_ , the renovated light transport she’d borrowed from Karrde’s fleet. Mara decided it best not to comm Skywalker, not yet. If she could get back on track with the next stop, no need to deal with the problem of what to do with Marc until her mission’s completion.

She found some worn mechanic’s overalls in a storage locker that fit the clone. The relief at having him finally dressed was tempered by disappointment at the same. Both logic and science dictated Skywalker’s body had to be pretty similar, although Mara tried not to dwell on that. For having been “grown” in his cylinder, Marc had exceptionally-developed musculature. When he’d dressed, and she’d had to demonstrate how to fasten the outfit, the clone had taken the opportunity to inform her, unprompted, that he enjoyed body weight training on the holosports channel. No wonder, with that physique.

Mara had grunted a non-reply. She was determined to ignore him as much as possible, but, like Skywalker himself, the clone was too damn nice. The first full day in hyperspace, Marc mopped the decks unasked, offered to give her a shoulder rub when he saw her wince after replacing a cargo panel (of course she’d refused!), and done two loads of festering laundry in the ship press. 

Much of his curiosity centered around whether certain things he’d seen on the holo were “true or untrue,” as he phrased it. Whatever she told him, he accepted without question. Those broadcasts were the only things he’d had to occupy his time, without datapads or texts in his bunker. Mara no longer could think of it as an idiot screen, because obviously it had been an excellent instructor.

Marc had learned a great deal—everything from cooking, simple mechanics, history, sports, holistic remedies, and other languages from his screen time. He was fluent in Bocce as well as Basic, much to Mara’s surprise, having found an interplanetary trade network that offered lessons three times a day, and also knew a smattering of High Galactic, thanks to repeat viewings of period romances. He was obviously smart, a quick study, and absolutely the opposite of what she had expected a clone to be. 

Not to mention the fact that he was incredibly good-looking. Mara allowed herself to register this reality in a way she completely refused to do with Skywalker. It didn’t mean anything, but he _did_ have that perfect ass, in or out of his overalls. At the moment, out, as Marc had decided his “work clothes,” as he called them, needed to be treated in the laundry press this morning, the third day of their voyage. 

“Excuse me, Mara.” She looked up from her datapad in the modest lounge on the _Raised Ante_ , forcing her eyes to meet the pure blue twinkling at her. He’d been wandering around naked for at least half an hour and she’d been doing her best not to notice. “Are you busy?”

She sighed, exaggerating the sound, and lowered her propped-up boots as she set the device on the cushion beside her. “I guess not.”

“Can I show you something?”

A common question over the past few days. Marc was very proud of performing tasks he’d seen on holos, such as setting the table, organizing her supply closet based on a home improvement series, and, most recently, getting dried grease out of her sonic filtration panel thanks to some program he adored called _Handy Hands._ At first she’d skeptically observed his work, to make sure he wasn’t trying to sabotage anything, but it soon became evident the clone was more like an overeager droid than mutinous insurgent. Mara couldn’t complain about the chores he was doing, in any case, and had decided a few compliments was a small price to pay to keep him occupied and out of her way.

Following the clone’s bare back into the spartan guest cabin where she’d installed him, Mara blinked, perplexed at the scene before her. Two stemmed glasses sat on the tiny viewport sill, unidentifiable liquid within, and a pale green glowrod cast a soft ambiance through the space, instead of the harsh overhead lights. He must have bypassed the motion timers somehow. What looked like namana blossoms were artfully strewn along the floor leading to the little bunk. Crouching down, Mara picked one up. Made of flimsy, carefully folded in the style of Kurtzen plast crafts.

“What is all this?” she asked, straightening, letting the flat petal between her hands fall back to the deck.

Marc smiled happily. “I thought we could have sex.”

Mara’s jaw slackened, her eyes widening. Yes, it was a scene for seduction, but she had thought he was staging some sort of aesthetic, demonstrating a design suggestion he’d seen on _Hapan Home Holidays_ or some ridiculous show like that.

“Excuse me?” He was _naked_ …and…and maybe she heard him wrong.

“Isn’t this nice?” Marc gestured towards his perfectly-made minimalist bunk. “I’ve always wanted to…and well, the holovids are all so different, so I wasn’t sure what you’d like. Some women don’t like a direct approach, it seems, but you…” He trailed off, and Mara stupidly waited for him to finish his sentence before she came to her senses.

Pressing her lips together, she counted to five. “Are you telling me you watched holo _porn_ too?”

“I watched everything. Holoporn too, yes. And since you don’t seem to have a partner…”

She was struck dumb, laughing because that was the only thing she _could_ do. This was all beyond imagining, just underscoring the magnitude of her own folly by taking this holo-educated clone with her to find its twisted brethren.

“People don’t just…just…” She didn’t know what to say. People _did_ just, that was the problem.

Marc’s jaw locked in discomfort, red rising in his cheeks, pale hands twitching at his sides. “You don’t like the … um…” 

He floundered and Mara almost took pity on him. He looked so much like Skywalker, stars, it was more than disconcerting. She sincerely hoped that the Jedi was more adept at seduction, for his own sake, if not his potential partners’.

“I do.” It always was hard to concentrate when this clone was nude in her presence. Mara attempted to be kind without playing into his fantasy. “I do like it, it’s very pretty.” She crossed her arms—the entire situation had made her whole body tense. “The Kurtzen art flowers are a nice touch.”

The beaming smile that met her words stole Mara’s composure. The compliment had landed perfectly. “I learned on—”

“—on a holo show, yes Marc, I know.” She avoided his eyes. “Look, this is nice, but it’s not a good idea.” His face fell again and she tried for humor. “Didn’t they teach you about masturbation in those holopornos?”

“Yes,” Marc answered seriously. “I can do that for you, if you like to watch.”

It took her a second to process what he was offering, then Mara blanched.

“No! Marc! No, just…I can’t. I don’t want that. Uh…” He looked too vulnerable, too hurt, too much like Skywalker, and the worst part was, she _did_ want something.

She had started to _like_ him, as a person, not a clone, not as a carbon copy of Skywalker. What had become painfully clear in only 72 hours was that this clone _was_ an individual: well-mannered, considerate, with quite a few useful skills, and full of all the messy needs and wants and feelings that every sentient had. 

That she had too.

“I have to go.”

She pushed past him into the corridor, feet on autopilot, trying to decide where best to escape. They had another three days to their destination. It was going to be impossible to avoid Marc the whole time. Maybe she should just turn the ship around and take him ‘home’ to Callos. But that wasn’t fair either. He didn’t really have a home. He didn’t have anyone. Sort of like her.

“Sithspit,” she whispered, the tingle between her legs suggesting an alternate course of action. No… absolutely not. Her own room was the best refuge, and that masturbation advice went both ways. She couldn’t risk succumbing to the urge to fuck a sexy clone’s brains out, no matter how appealing the images dancing in her head at the moment.

No. No way would she do that…it would be weird and wrong for hundreds of reasons—clone, virgin, and Skywalker body double at the top of the lengthy list. In fact, enumerating that list would probably be a good idea. A great idea, unlike the horrible…enticing one that seemed dominant right now in her brain.

“Mara, please wait.” Bantha shit. She hadn’t moved fast enough, halting just in front of her quarters. 

“Yes?” she grumbled, spinning around and smack into a kiss. Marc’s mouth covered hers, soft, testing, then harder. He framed her head in his hands, fingers pushing, tangling in her hair as she opened to him. _Just what kind of porn did he watch?_ Mara wondered, stunned at her own reaction. His lips turned firm and confident—far more confident than she would expect a novice to kiss. Her traitorous palms slid up his chest, mapping the hard planes of heated muscle as his tongue found hers, impatient and determined. His fingers lowered to smooth around her waist, arms tightening in a fervid embrace. 

It had been too long since she’d been kissed, and maybe never kissed like this—with raw, desperate want, no artifice, no pretense. Marc was inexperienced but talented, instinct taking over as their hands explored. There was a purity to this lust, something new and fearless and consuming. Mara was powerless to do anything but surrender—thought erased by sensation, rationale unable to conquer the welcome hormonal rush. 

Her back slammed against the hull as the flightsuit fell away from her shoulders. Her chestwrap was next, sliding up and trapping her arms for a moment as Marc bent to taste her breasts. Fumbling hands yanked her basics down as his mouth travelled in the opposite direction—up her breastbone, finding all the most responsive parts on her neck. Mara sucked in a breath as he targeted the wetness between her thighs, a bent knuckle following the seam of her cunt, daring to touch. His fingers extended, careful, grazing, then her hips jerked of their own accord, taking the tips inside, just a moment. A sound halfway between a rumble and a whine left his lips, and the clone fell to his knees like he’d been shot. His tongue studied her, parting her folds, licking a broad path from base to apex, swirling around her clit with more speed than technique, but the result was the same. 

Mara’s head rested against the corridor wall, eyes drifting closed. Her fingers curled in the softness of his wavy hair as her orgasm neared. How likely, she reflected in a daze, was it that this was a dream? That some spacer sickness had sent her cerebral synapses spiraling into some demented fantasy… It was easier to believe than any other explanation.

She trembled as her release arrived, bowing into his mouth. Every nerve fired, every muscle cramped as Marc eagerly drank in her orgasm, then suddenly tender as he laid a gentle kiss on the crease where hip met thigh. Immediately after, he was on his feet, lifting one of her legs, bracing it on the opposite wall as he shoved two fingers deep into her core. His kiss returned, lips shiny with her juices, tongue soaked with the taste of her climax.

“Good?” he murmured, breath uneven and hot on her cheek.

“Don’t say _anything_ ,” Mara growled, pulling free from his clumsy fingers. One hand wrapped around his stiff cock, the other punched the code to unlock her quarters.

The door slid open to her unadorned, utilitarian living space. The contrast... Those flimsy flower petals he’d scattered in his cabin were sweet, and the thought that this clone—this man—had tried to woo her in such a simple fashion made Mara’s chest clench and stomach tighten. He wasn’t innocent, that was apparent, but she hadn’t expected…

The words flew once more from her head as Marc grabbed her thighs and dumped her onto the bed. Apparently, since the romantic route had failed, he’d decided the rough and tumble method was the way to go. Mara wasn’t complaining. Romance provided too much space for thought—thoughts about how much this guy looked like Skywalker—thoughts about how in many ways he _was_ Skywalker, biologically at least. And wondering if this meant that—

“Tell me you want me,” the clone ordered then, cutting off her thought. He sounded so serious, delivering a line he’d no doubt heard too many times in those preposterous holopornos. Mara huffed in amusement, despite the streak of desire his words produced.

At the sound, warm hands encircled her wrists and pinned her against the pillow. She let him.

“Well?” He cocked an eyebrow, eyes gleaming and lips twisted in a delicious smirk. Mara knew what she wanted, and he knew it somehow too. The multitude of reasons to resist no longer seemed relevant. 

“Yes.”

A slight nod, and Marc released her wrists, hands skimming down her arms, over her ribs, along the insides of her thighs. He settled on her knees, spread open and held wide. Seconds later his cock entered her, only to be stopped by the narrow constriction of her walls. He wasn’t deep enough—forceful enough. Mara arched up to take him all, letting out a soft moan as the thickness of his cock filled her completely, hard and sweet. Her hands reached for the lean curve of his ass, adjusting to demonstrate the angle she wanted. Marc lowered slick lips to her breasts, drawing the tips between his teeth, sucking harder as he began to move. 

This definitely was _not_ a horrible idea—in fact, it was one of the best ideas she’d ever had. There hadn’t been anyone since that brainless smuggler back on Tantra, ages ago. This virgin was a natural, clearly a good student no matter what holovid he’d studied for his moves. His hands roamed everywhere, searching and relentless, honing in on every hidden erogenous zone. His mouth stayed reverent and hungry. Mara bit back a scream when he shifted, his frenzied thrusts rubbing against her overstimulated clit. 

“You like that?” he whispered, and Mara rolled her eyes against his neck. Yes, he’d memorized the holoporn scripts.

“Stop talking,” she commanded, pleased at his response—a wild, furious kiss that blacked out any criticism. Mara nipped at his mouth as he drew away, wanting more of his taste and tongue. Long fingers wrapped around her ankles and lifted them over his shoulders as the clone settled into a new rhythm—slow and deep, each penetration pushing a cry from her throat. The angle was nice, the visual was even nicer, and just like that, the reality of what she was doing reappeared, shattering the moment.

She was fucking Skywalker’s clone. Was there any going back from this? Was there any recovery or explanation that would allow her to get past it? To forgive herself? Mara’s eyes squeezed shut as Marc’s pace picked up, as if blocking out the sight of him—the strange, wonderful, facsimile of another man—could remove her from the moment, from the guilt.

It didn’t work, instead only heightening the adjacent delirium, the sweet hysteria caused by the sublime friction of Marc’s cock. His movements evolved, turned mindless, wet and audible as his hips slammed into her body, heading towards orgasm. His breathing came faster, the sound not unlike Skywalker after a sparring session. Mara opened her eyes again, no longer lost in the moment, caught somewhere between disbelief and shame as he pulled out, painting a web of come all over her chest. 

Of course. They did that in the holoporns as well. She should have expected it.

~~

He cleaned up, every drawn-out movement a tacit request to stay. After assuring Marc that she wasn’t angry at him—something he seemed inordinately concerned about to the point where she _did_ almost get angry about it—Mara let him kiss her goodnight. A kiss that was far nicer than it should have been: soft and worshipful—a thrice-renewed press of lips, a tiny brush of tongue. It was far more _normal_ than it should have been. Fine, he could stay.

Thankfully, he didn’t attempt to snuggle. 

She didn’t trust him, but she didn’t _not_ trust him either. The Force was mute as to Marc’s nefarious intentions, if there were any. Not a hint of warning, no indication of concern from that innate alarm system she’d grown to rely on. So she let him sleep in her bunk. After an hour, Mara was still awake, hyperactive brain locked in a take-no-prisoners war with fatigue. 

He stirred.

Remembering her “no conversation” rule, Marc placed a chaste kiss on her shoulder, then curled up against her. Almost a cuddle, but not quite. Luckily he didn’t try to hold her, instinct serving him well there, she had to concede. She already had a healthy regard for the clone’s instincts, considering what he’d just done to her… And now he exuded contentment—carefree and relaxed—and Mara didn’t quite know what to do with that.

When a few minutes later, fingers skated a request along her inner thigh, Mara pushed his hand away, rolling to the side. She needed sleep—to escape as much as rest.

It seemed no time at all had passed when shipboard morning came. Mara blinked herself awake, then snapped upright at the memory of the clone in her bed. Force, he was beautiful.

Only a few seconds later, those gorgeous blue eyes fluttered open. He smiled, still silent. She nodded, almost business-like, at the face she’d come to know as Skywalker’s, and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk. Post-caf, some research on clone rights and development would have to happen. Better to know what options she had—what options Marc had—than continue blindly down this unproductive alley.

“Who’s Luke?”

The question was subdued, and Mara’s jaw clenched, every muscle tensing as one.

“Who’s Luke?” she echoed, staring at the wall before her, searching for a response.

“You said that name…last night. Is he my original?”

Mara groaned, pulling her long hair out of her eyes, twisting it into a knot at her nape. She didn’t remember that, and couldn’t decide if it was worse to have talked in her sleep or gasped out Skywalker’s name at the height of passion. Regardless, if Marc searched the holonet—now that she’d taught him how to do that—it wouldn’t take long to confirm his theory. Might as well admit it.

“Yes.”

“Is he your lover?”

“No.”

Silence, then the clone reached for her, the back of his hand grazing a path down her arm from shoulder to wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not like him?”

“No,” Mara shook her head, standing up. Her stomach hurt. “You’re completely different.” 

It was true, she realized. Whatever this clone was, it had developed its own personality and characteristics. It _sounded_ like Skywalker, it _looked_ like Skywalker, but Marc was far from that Jedi Knight that apparently showed up in her dreams.

“Will we make love again?”

Mara pressed open the modular closet, seizing the first tunic she touched. Sliding her arms into the sleeves, she turned around with a sigh. “You mean have sex? Kriff? Fuck?” 

Marc nodded, her words already encouraging his morning erection. Stars, he looked good—the lines of his hips, that muscled midriff—she wanted to run her tongue all over him, consequences be damned. And she couldn’t complain about his sexual education via holoporno—he’d more than satisfied…read her cues, adapted, paid attention. Her fingers paused on the tunic's fasteners.

“Maybe. Maybe we will.”

~~

By the time they got to the site of the second Spaarti cylinder on Kamparas, Mara had learned a lot more about clones. After the Clone Wars, there were serious questions about the legality of cloning as well as the rights of cloned creations. Then came the destruction of Kamino’s cloning facilities, however, and most of the legal issues disappeared: if people couldn’t create clones, their rights were no longer relevant. The most interesting records she found were excerpts from clone troopers’ accounts of the war—everything from datalog entries to battle reports. Diverse personalities, strengths, and weaknesses had shown through in the entries, and several academic treatises arguing for expanded clone rights cited these comms as proof of clone individuality—an inconvenient oxymoron, Mara thought, if ever there was one.

In any case, Marc _was_ different than Luuke, different than Skywalker—that was undeniable—and the information she found related to clones living “normal” lives made her feel marginally less torn about their recreational activities. 

Mara stood squinting in the sunlight at her navi, turning her boots in the direction indicated. Marc had asked to come to see the clone she was about to destroy, promising not to interfere. Still not completely at ease with his origins, Mara had refused. With Marc there, she fully expected him to try to talk her out of killing one of his “brothers.” She knew he wanted a family—he was upfront about it, admitting it freely.

So, unaccompanied and grateful for the fact, Mara crept stealthily down a poorly-marked path leading to another bunker. This one appeared to be a renovated blast shelter. Its entry was an overgrown trap door in the ground. The rainforest had covered it with mud and years of greenery, but the coordinates proved true. She cleared away the muck with her lightsaber, and moments later dropped into a well-appointed, bright and surprisingly spacious room.

“Hi,” said a familiar voice.

“Shavit,” cursed Mara, turning to face another self-released clone.


	3. The Third Clone

A few hours later, Mara sat at the dejarik table in the ship’s small lounge, facing Marc and… and Marg. 

Marc had explained to the clone, in a solemn tone, how to select a name. Marg hadn’t had access to broadcast holochannels in his isolation. However, a projector and collection of pre-recorded holovids—mostly documentaries—had been part of his supplies. The result was an unlikely military history buff. Practical and sharp, he had swiftly and independently come to the conclusion that he was a clone, based upon the vids and materials in his bunker.

Thus, after learning that Mara’s name was the basis for Marc’s, the new clone immediately seized upon the Marg Sabl tactical maneuver as an appropriate option, and took it as his name. He also wanted Sabl as a surname, which Mara said was ridiculous, although Marc was happy to humor the new clone and called him “Mr. Sabl” with a gleeful sideeye at her every once in a while. Far too much like his “original,” she had to acknowledge, adorable _and_ annoying, teasing her for a laugh.

It was plain she was losing the argument as to why Marg couldn’t come with them. This new Skywalker double was stoic, more serious than Marc, and considered everything from a perspective of doubt and distrust. Not unusual, Mara supposed, since he’d raised himself on battle strategies and historical propaganda. Marg didn’t want to stay on Kamparas, but he didn’t trust the New Republic to allow him to survive either. Considering Mara’s self-appointed mission to destroy the clones, she didn’t blame him. Now, arms crossed and brain overworked, Mara listened to the two men examine their legal options. It was surreal, to say the least. Marc was doing most of the heavy lifting in the discussion, and for that she was grateful. Everything was too much now—her mission had rapidly spiraled into failure. 

“I have to comm Skywalker,” she muttered. “This can’t continue.”

“Excuse me?” asked Marg.

“Our donor,” Marc explained helpfully. “His name is Luke Skywalker. He’s a Jedi Knight, and a champion of the New Republic.” A brief glance at Mara, lit by the ghost of a smirk. “And ‘just a friend.’”

“I know who he is,” Marg said, his tone colored with interest. “I thought I _was_ him…once…before I realized I was a clone. And then I thought _you_ were him, when I first saw you today.” Clasping his hands, Marg leaned forward, warming to his topic. “General Skywalker is the hero of the Battle of Yavin, and first _and_ second Battles of Endor, the Battle of Saijo, the Battle of Mindor—”

“Great,” Mara interrupted with a wince. “So you know who Skywalker is. But he doesn’t know who _you_ are, and I think we should let him figure out what to do with you.”

“Are we his property?” asked Marc, “since we’re his clones?”

“Not exactly,” she answered, annoyed at how Marc had quickly hit on the legality of the thing. As much as she’d been able to discern on the holonet, once clones hit galactic standard maturity, they were given rights. Not as few as droids or bondservants, but not as many as “original” sentients either. 

Skywalker, as she understood it, could petition the court to have them destroyed, but it would be a messy process. Easier to go the extra-judicial route if that was his preference. She could be useful there. And having clones wouldn’t be good for his reputation, no matter what happened, if this got out. People might think he’d created them on purpose, an egotistical experiment, or suspect the galaxy’s favorite Jedi was granted special legal exemptions to restart his Jedi order with only the best.

“May I explain to Marg about Luuke? And the Dark Jedi clone?” Marc asked, sliding fresh cups of caf across the table to both of them. “It may help him understand our dilemma and your views regarding clones.”

Marc was maddeningly, unfailingly considerate. He’d developed uncanny social graces from watching his holo programs, and it was simply…bizarre. She almost preferred Marg’s suspicion to Marc’s sweetness—it felt more natural, somehow. Accepting the refilled mug, she got to her feet.

“Sure.” Checking her weapons, Mara decided to head to the cockpit and comms station. “And then _Marg’s_ going back to his bunker.”

~~

Skywalker wasn’t available. His private comm didn’t even connect, and when she tried the New Republic ops center, they informed her the Jedi Master was deployed and “dark.” Undercover, in other words. _Perfect timing, Skywalker,_ Mara cursed, cutting the connection. No point in asking his sister—if Skywalker was doing something important, it would be nothing the Chief of State could say over an open channel anyhow. Disappointed and irritated, Mara took a moment to draw upon the Force for calming techniques—ones Skywalker had taught her, ironically—before feeling equipped to face the clones again.

Returning to the common area, she set the empty mug on the table and wordlessly observed the rest of Marc’s storytelling. He had smiled up at her entrance, but kept talking, while Marg’s shoulders tensed at her approach. Mara didn’t have the energy or inclination to contribute, so she sat in the corner and listened, fascinated at Marc’s sense of drama and nuance. Something else learned from his short lifetime of afternoon holodramas. When he had finished telling the version of Wayland she’d shared, he shifted to face her.

“Did I miss anything, Mara?”

“I guess not,” she replied, watching Marg’s reaction carefully. It was true she didn’t completely trust Marc, despite the fact they were screwing on a regular basis, but she _definitely_ didn’t trust this new clone. Maybe Marc _had_ developed successfully, normally…but there was no telling at this early stage what sort of strange motivations Marg had. Marc could be the exception that proved the rule that clones were nothing but trouble.

“So,” Marc’s gaze settled back on Marg with a smile, “were there pornographic holovids in your bunker?”

“Marc!” Mara protested reflexively.

“Yes, of course,” Marg answered, ignoring her outburst. “Is that unusual?”

Both men turned to her, and a blush crept up Mara’s neck. But Marc spared her a response. 

“No, I watched holoporn too. It’s proved to be very educational. Mara is happy with the results.”

Mara sprung to her feet, not even sure where she could go. She didn’t want to leave them alone, but most assuredly didn’t want to listen to two clones dissect their favorite holoporn tropes. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to being teased—harassed even—as a women usually surrounded by mostly-male spacers, but…

“Marg,” she began, trying to change the subject, “there’s no way you can come with us. There isn’t room on the ship. But we’ll return, after Skywalker is contacted.”

“There is room,” Marc contradicted her calmly. “I’m no longer using the guest cabin.” He grinned at Marg. “I’m sleeping with Mara.” The grin broadened. “In her quarters,” he clarified, an unnecessary addition. 

“I see,” said Marg, blue eyes betraying nothing, “however Mara doesn’t want me to stay.”

“Maaaaraaaaaa,” Marc’s voice took on a cajoling tone. Stars, mass media was the worst thing ever invented. He’d obviously learned this “gimme” whine from some annoying kids show. “Puh-leeeease? What did Luke Skywalker say?”

“I couldn’t reach him,” Mara scowled, annoyance souring in her stomach. She hated herself for getting into this insane situation. “But when I do, he’ll probably want you destroyed.”

“I don’t think so,” Marg said suddenly, sounding the most assured since he’d come aboard. “In the ninth episode of the _Heroes of the Old Republic_ docuseries, they emphasized that the Jedi Order values and protects innocent life. And Marc and I have done nothing wrong.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Mara snarled. “Skywalker knows what happens when a clone goes bad.”

This seemed to be worth considering, and Marg’s forehead creased, looking over at Marc. “Perhaps she’s right. Luke Skywalker may view us as a threat. We could impersonate him, if nothing else. Destroy his reputation and work, even if we didn’t attack him physically.”

“Possibly,” agreed Marc, nonplussed by this pronouncement and oblivious to the alarm growing in Mara’s chest. “But I have no reason to do so. Do you?”

“None,” answered the other clone, “I would not like General Skywalker as an enemy. I would rather thank him for his contribution to my life.” Marg settled back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Unless he attempts to have me destroyed. Then I will have to retaliate.”

Mara sat down again. Maybe she needed to hear this conversation after all.

“Retaliate?” she prompted. One hand fiddled with the edge of her tunic, adjacent to the weapon dangling from her belt. Displaying violent tendencies would certainly make killing Marg easier. She _was_ finding it difficult to plot how to eliminate them, if Skywalker requested that course of action. There were humane, painless ways to do it, pushing ethics to the side and focusing on methodology. She bit her lip, telling herself that deliberating before an assassination was fine, as long as it wasn’t the target that gave one pause.

“I have a natural wish to survive, Mara. Wouldn’t you, in our position?”

She didn’t _want_ to consider it, but a sense of fairness made her do so. If she were indeed a clone, yes, she would of course wish to survive. But should she tell them that? 

Mara drummed her fingers lightly on the dejarik table. “Yes,” she admitted at last. “I would. But that isn’t the issue.”

“I don’t think it _will_ be an issue,” Marc chimed in. “Luke Skywalker, like Marg says, is a good person. He’s a Jedi and has a true sense of justice. Surely he would not execute us for crimes we have not committed.”

She wanted them both to shut up. This wasn’t supposed to be a dialogue, nor a dilemma. Mara pushed away from the table, standing once more. “Marc, could I speak with you in private please?”

“Of course.”

In the confines of her cabin, she railed and threatened, but Marc held firm. Marg deserved to come with them, he argued. His “brother” wouldn’t be a problem. Marc swore to “kill him with his bare hands” if he tried to harm Mara or Luke. Another line—like so many of his phrases—she was sure he’d heard in some half-baked holodrama. When she hesitated, he crashed his mouth to hers in a scene from the grand finale of an epic romance. Mara groaned in defeat, accepting the promise from his lips, the pledge of his hands against her skin, the oath of his cock that shoved hard and rough inside, exactly as she wanted it. 

He knew _exactly_ how she wanted it now. Shavit.

She came twice, stifling a cry as she collapsed onto the bed. Marc propped himself up on one hand, a distant light darkening his eyes.

“What?” Mara asked, sluggish with satisfaction and in a far better humor than an hour prior.

“I think…I think I just felt the Force.”

“What?!” That jerked her to alertness, although she wanted to snort in disbelief. Still, Luuke had wielded a lightsaber, and C’baoth had used the Force to devastating effect. Clones obviously were capable of acting as Jedi…or Sith. “What do you mean?”

“When you came…I felt it. Like…as if it were me. And right now, here, I can sense confusion and fear. I think it’s coming from Marg.” Mara winced at the name, and Marc noticed. “Mara, he’s my _brother_. I can sense his feelings. It’s strange and…a little scary. Maybe because I never was around anyone before, I didn’t know I could…”

“It may just be plain empathy,” she tried. “Doesn’t take a genius to imagine that… _Marg_ ,” she forced the name from her lips, “must be worried about his future.”

Shifting beside her, the clone reached for his freshly-laundered overalls. “He needs us.”

“He doesn’t,” she snapped. “He’s been alone long enough to handle it.”

“Please, Mara.” That voice…Skywalker’s voice. She still wasn’t used to it. “Please let him stay. He could join us, here. Wouldn’t you like that?”

It took a moment for his implication to sink in, her reflexive resistance to the suggestion undeniably tinged with lust. What a bad idea. A very very bad, very _naughty_ idea. Instead of a knee-jerk refusal, Mara took a deep breath, let it out, and then met those pure blue eyes that were gazing hopefully down at her.

“It’s not a good idea, Marc.”

He said nothing, looking into her, past her, seeming to read something that placated him at the back of her brain. Slowly tugging the sleeves of his outfit over his arms, Marc nodded.

“So he can stay?” 

“Only until I get a hold of Skywalker.”

“Thank you Mara,” he whispered, kissing her softly and leaving to tell Marg the good news. She could hear laughter and sense the happiness and relief coming from the other room. They _sounded_ a bit like brothers, she supposed. Bizarre.

Too tired to deal with her decision, Mara set her blaster next to her hand, her lightsaber within easy reach, and lay back on the mattress. Tomorrow she would loot the bunker and they could head for Barlok. She prayed to all the gods that ever were that Skywalker’s third clone wouldn’t be awake when they got there.

~~

It was a three day trip to Barlok, their next destination. Marg kept mostly to himself, although he tried a few times to make conversation with her—Mara had no doubt Marc put him up to it. The first clone’s social graces were clearly rubbing off on the second. Marg even complimented her on the ship’s maintenance, something she doubted he thought of himself, although the praise warmed her nonetheless. The _Raised Ante_ was one of Karrde’s older freighters, but that didn’t mean she didn’t take great care of it. In hyperspace, there wasn’t much else to do... Well, lately she was killing time learning via faithful reenactment about all of the holoporn Marc had studied, of course—but apart from that, keeping the ship in perfect condition was something she enjoyed, and always seemed to make the stars slide by a little faster.

When they landed on the forest planet, Mara again insisted she should go alone to the site where C’baoth had hidden away his experiment. Marg and Marc took turns pleading to accompany. Marg even volunteered to stay with any clone they discovered rather than ask her to take on another passenger. 

“We’ll come back for them both, then, won’t we, Mara?” Marc had said, as if it were already a given.

“If that’s what Skywalker suggests,” she nodded, seeing the opportunity for what it was. It wasn’t that Marg was a problem—if anything he’d gotten more agreeable the longer he hung around Marc—but there _were_ three other clones on the list, and keeping two in the same place simplified things. It already seemed doubtful that she’d be killing any of them in cold-blood. Living with these clones had changed her perspective far too quickly, and it was damned frustrating.

So they all went. 

Something was wrong, Mara felt it like a menacing tide, rolling dark and inevitable. The air crackled thick with polluted energy as the targeted stony outcropping came into view. An aura of decay and abandonment choked the building. Marc, whose strength in the Force seemed to be increasing daily, also detected the disturbance. His fingers reached for her as they approached, his forehead wrinkling and eyes narrowing. Mara ignored them, seeing hurt in his look.

“My weapons,” she explained in a rushed whisper. “I need my hands.”

With a nod of understanding, he jogged faster as the trio moved closer to the portal. It had been wrenched open, no need for a code or attempt to slice it. Marg stumbled to a halt a few meters from the entrance. 

“I’m not sure we should go in,” he said grimly. 

Confused, Mara reached out with the Force, trying to see what had given him pause. There was no sense of life within, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She wasn’t even sure she’d be able to sense a clone in stasis the same way she could sense other lifeforms. But perhaps Marg didn’t wish to see her terminate the life of his unborn “brother.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, pushing inside. Marc, she saw, also halted at the entry. Then, as if they’d exchanged a silent signal, both clones followed her into the darkness. Mara spared a quick glance behind at them… They were holding hands. A dull ache in her stomach responded to their solidarity—their resolve. Unarmed, but they had each other, and were committed to seeing this through.

It wasn’t just the facility gate that had been breached; the Spaarti chamber had been destroyed—the clone inside exposed well before reaching maturity. Its twisted corpse lay sprawled in shattered transparisteel on the stony earth, ravaged by scavengers and time. Mara guessed it had been there several months at least. It didn’t appear to have been developing properly, in any case, to her untrained eye. The figure was no bigger than an adolescent, malformed. She hoped it had never gained consciousness. 

Turning to her companions, Mara saw horror on Marc’s face, sadness on Marg’s.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and she knew these clones imagined a strange bond with one another. The tableau was unsettling, despite her earlier and still-present intention to destroy the things before they were born. At least this way, they were spared seeing her kill it.

“What do you think happened?” Marg asked, stepping to the remains and crouching down like a detective at a crime scene. “Who could have done this?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, looking around. “It may have been an accident. Or thieves. Or wild animals. Or C’baoth himself, deciding the clone wasn’t viable. Whatever it was, it’s long gone.”

“We have to bury him.” This from Marc, the words broken and wet.

“We have to burn him,” corrected Marg. Mara was about to agree—none of Skywalker’s genetic material should remain if possible—but Marg continued, offering a different rationale. “Fallen Jedi are traditionally cremated on funeral pyres.”

 _This wasn’t a Jedi_ Mara thought but didn’t say. No need to argue the point when the results were what mattered. Holstering her blaster, she nodded at the twin faces she knew so well, gazing at her as if seeking permission.

“I’ll help,” she said, scanning the room. She’d make sure there was nothing of value, no experimental data or tissue samples, and then torch this whole place too.

~~

Mara cleared the leafy terrain behind the facility, while the two clones constructed a modest pyre using the Tisvollt branches littering the area. When all was ready, they said a brief goodbye to their dead ‘brother’—Marn, they had christened the dead—and Mara lit the wooden bier. 

It seemed to Mara that the pyre burned painfully slow. Barlok’s sun had long set by the time the final flames faded to embers. The clones were eerily silent throughout, and Mara wondered, unable to help it, if their grief was genuine or an imitation of some scene they’d seen in a holo. The uncertainty bothered her more than she wanted to admit. They _seemed_ human. They were too much like Skywalker. The similarities confronted her through unexpected, minor details—how Marg ran elegant fingers through his untamed hair, or Marc’s energetic bounce when he leapt to his feet in the morning. They were Skywalker’s genetic twins, so the similarities shouldn’t disturb her so much. But they did.

Back at the _Raised Ante_ , the mood was subdued. Mara wasn’t unsympathetic, but they had to understand this was reality. It was likely the other two “brothers” on her itinerary would suffer—or had suffered—similar fates. It was probably a good thing to have had this fatal encounter now, to prepare them. 

They were heading to Tiss’sharl next, Mara had informed them bloodlessly. It would be a fairly long trip, depending on hyperlane congestion. Plenty of time to mourn past and future.

But the clones’ sense of loss was strong in the Force, haunting the ship’s corridors. So just after they made the jump to hyperspace, in an effort to change the atmosphere, Mara broke out the liquor—the good stuff. Everyone had a tumbler of Merenzane Gold while Marc was cooking, some sort of stew he swore he could reproduce from a holoshow about Advozsec cuisine. He enjoyed working in the tiny galley, and Mara let him, although the store of fresh ingredients was running low after more than a week of his gastronomical experiments. Making a mental note to schedule a resupply stop, she watched wordlessly as Marg drank and Marc busied himself with a saucepan. 

Noticing that Marg had just helped himself to a refill, Mara capped the bottle and swapped it out for a carafe of Andoan wine. Andoan wine reliably went with everything, even whatever mess Marc was brewing on the synthgrill.

Pouring three generous glasses, Mara sat back down at the table, wondering if she should head to the sonic before dinner. A burnt, funereal smell lay thick in her hair, an unpleasant reminder of the afternoon’s work.

“Thank you,” said Marg, emptying his Merenzane Gold and reaching for the wine. “I don’t really like these drinks, but I am feeling more relaxed.”

“That’s the point,” Mara nodded, briefly regretting giving him the good stuff if any swill would have served. No matter. She’d restock it. Merenzane Gold was pricey, but not exactly rare. Most spaceports had a bottle or two for purchase.

“Still no response from General Skywalker?”

Mara shook her head, stifling a frown. She’d tried his private comm again before they took off from Barlok, but nothing. No connection, no static. Nothing. Vaguely, she considered telling the clone that the "General" had long-since resigned his military commission. Deciding that might adversely affect the rather helpful hero worship, she demurred.

Marg drank without comment or enthusiasm, and Mara took the opportunity to look at him. He was just like Marc, just like Skywalker, except he _wasn’t_. Marg hadn’t exercised in the same matter—his body was a living testament to his different regimen. While Marc was lean and muscular, more wiry than buff, Marg had doubtless worked more with resistance or weights. Probably wanted to look more like the soldiers on his holovids, she thought, continuing her appraisal. 

His chest was broad, triceps bulging against his upper back muscles. Marg’s thighs were also thicker than Marc’s, his calves large in comparison. He probably wasn’t very flexible, with all that bulk. Both men shared the same hair, shaggy and long, just scraping the tops of their shoulders, but Marg’s back and neck were more developed. Mara also found it interesting that they both shaved—neither suffering a beard in their isolation. She didn’t ask why, but was unreasonably glad this ship had grooming implements to maintain the look. Skywalker had never looked good—as good—with a beard, the few times she’d seen him make the attempt.

She was practically ogling this clone. Dammit, they both were very handsome, in an untested, rawer form than their “original.” Not that there was anything wrong with Skywalker…she only…

Abruptly, Mara realized her evaluation had not gone unnoticed. Marg had cocked his head, meeting her stare dead on. His blue eyes shone with something like interest, fingers loosely wrapped around the wineglass stem.

“I…” Shavit, she couldn’t finish her thought. “I’m going to the sonic.”

“No!” Marc protested without turning around. “Dinner’s ready. Please Mara, it’ll get cold.”

 _If I had a credit for every “please Mara” from his lips…_ Forcing a smile in his direction, Mara got to her feet to grab the cutlery. Marg stood to help, and four minutes later, all three were seated around a steaming pot of Riflorian mash.

The silence was tilting into awkward when Marc broke it. “A toast!” he raised his glass. “I’ve never toasted anything. I’ve always wanted to toast!” 

He was cute, even when he was ridiculous. Mara’s lips curled entirely against her will. 

“Everyone toast something! You go first Mara.” 

Mara lifted her glass and nudged Marg’s into his fingers. She just hoped no one drank to Marn—the dead clone—or anything depressing like that.

“To the chef?” she offered, hoping to keep it light.

“That’s so kind Mara!” Marc beamed at her, his smile so damn charming she got actual butterflies in her stomach. “To me!”

They all toasted, and then Marc laughed. “My turn! To Mara!” He lowered his voice as if imparting a secret “…She’s the most wonderful woman I ever met.”

Even Marg cracked a smile at that, and they drank, Mara failing to successfully imitate Marc’s “to me!” exuberance. Then it was over to Marg.

“To a better future,” he said finally. “…for clones…and their allies.”

“Well said, Mr. Sabl,” Marc approved with a wink at Mara, and they clinked glasses once more. The ritual seemed to have lightened the mood despite the seriousness of Marg’s words, and as they tucked in to the spicy stew, Mara found herself enjoying the conversation, and yes, the company.

~~

Marc joined her in the sonic after dinner. She didn’t mind, not really. His presence kept her from the inquietude of her own thoughts. The chemical spray washed over them as he took her from behind, the front of his wet thighs strong against the backs of hers. He had learned she wanted it rough, wanted it hard, wanted originality and invention. And didn’t appreciate conversation or what he _thought_ were sexy one-liners. 

Tonight, Marc wrapped one arm around her chest, fingers playing at her nipples, the other targeting her clit with devastating precision. She jerked on his cock, soapy flesh sliding against soapy flesh as he slammed deep. Bracing herself on the wall, hands slippery, Mara breathed into the enthusiasm of his fucking as she shuddered from its ferocity. Just as her climax glimmered before her, he withdrew, spinning her around in his arms and turning off the sonic.

“What the—”

“Come with me,” he smiled. Mara let him lead her, dripping wet, aching, nude, into the bedroom where…Marg was sitting on the bunk, wearing nothing but his basics.

Every muscle tensed. Her fingers flexed, ready to call a weapon to her hand if necessary. “What are you doing here?” she ground out, stepping away from Marc’s arms that were attempting to hold her in a damp embrace.

“Marc said—” he started.

“I invited him,” Marc interrupted. “To join us.” He glared at Marg, voice chastising. “I _said_ it would be better if you were undressed. In the bed.”

“Like in the holoporns,” Mara sighed, feeling the throb in her clit intensify. The differences she’d noticed in Marg’s physique when he was fully clothed hadn’t been given justice in her imagination. He looked amazing. The blood in her veins seemed to surge straight to her groin, the overheated moisture escaping the refresher making her light-headed.

“I _am_ undressed,” Marg replied, standing and taking a step towards them. “Mara…” He held out a supplicant hand, knuckles grazing the length of her forearm. Goosebumps followed his touch. “I can leave but…”

“She doesn’t want you to leave,” Marc said, his long fingers cupping her breasts from behind, rolling the pointed nipples slowly. “She wants this. She wants both of us. Can’t you feel it?”

Mara moaned as Marg’s hand left her arm and caressed her neck, thumb tracing her jaw. His palm was soft, gentle, and she leaned against it, eyes falling shut. She _did_ want them both…that was the worst part. Who wouldn’t? They were beautiful and unquestioning, eager to please and good at following directions. And they _knew_ it—because she hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t been shielding as if she were truly around a Force user like Skywalker. So her interest wasn’t just blatant, it was incriminating as well.

However, like she’d already told Marc, it _was_ a very very bad idea. Hard to imagine how she’d allowed herself to get into this situation: dripping wet inside and out, feverish, overstimulated, completely exposed before two extremely attractive and horny clones who wanted nothing more than to kriff her senseless. 

“Tell me to fuck you,” Marg commanded, his voice somehow harder than Marc’s, although he had clearly read from the same script.

“Yes,” she heard herself deliver the next line, that cue to receive his lips, his tongue, his arms as he pulled her away from Marc, against that too-broad chest. Marg crushed her as if to prevent escape, kissing the air from her lungs until she gasped. Mara’s hands didn’t know where to begin with his taut skin, finally settling against the pronounced furrows at his hips, shoving down the thin material of his shorts. At her back, Marc licked up her spine, sending shivers to the nape of her neck.

Mara quivered as Marg’s exposed erection pressed between her thighs. His mouth tasted like the wine, his tongue overpowering and too strong; she stopped battling it and let hers lie soft until his kisses gentled, turned deeper, more attentive. Marc’s lips continued their journey behind her, planting kisses along the curves of her legs, knees, thighs, and hips. Kneeling, he spread the muscles of her ass, tongue tracing the cleft before pushing between the cheeks, searching and teasing.

Sighing against Marg’s lips, she gripped him tighter, fighting to hold still as Marc’s firm, hot tongue found its target. His fingers parted and held her open, spearing past her asshole. One hand swiped roughly along the line of her cunt, drawing her wetness backwards, adding her own lubrication to the mix. 

Skimming his hands down her waist, Marg dropped to his knees before her, tongue diving straight to her clit as she grappled for support on his shoulders. Her cunt was already desperate for attention, thanks to the interruption in the refresher. Mara’s fingertips clawed for purchase as she writhed between their mouths, her long-overdue orgasm hovering infuriatingly close. Begging her own body to deliver her from this sensory purgatory, a string of curses and pleas dropped from her lips, filthy and frantic. The clones’ joint assault intensified, maddeningly, deliciously coordinated as probing fingers joined lips and tongues. At last, the galaxy winked out of existence as the supernova in her nerves exploded, stilling her words, shaking her knees as she slumped into the brace of four hands at her hips and ribs. 

Before she’d recovered, the clones stood. Marc supported her hips as Marg’s hands bent under her knees. Her toes came off the floor, soles braced against his chest. Spellbound by her climax and the view, Mara could only watch as both clones shifted her higher and pressed closer. After a punishing, sloppy kiss, Marg shoved hard into Mara’s soaked cunt. Her hypersensitive body sang at the sensation, overwhelmed, barely registering the nudge of Marc’s cock at her ass. His lips grazed her shoulder blade as the tip of his cock pressed slowly against her tightest hole. Groaning, she tried to relax, impossible with the pistoning thickness of Marg in her cunt. Maybe Marc had briefed him—told him how she liked to be fucked. She didn’t put it past either of them…

As if in telepathic consultation, Marg pulled out, the head of his cock attendant at her entrance, while Marc coaxed her wider, past all resistance, sliding deeper and deeper into her ass. He groaned against her neck, hips almost flush with hers. It was a difficult, wonderful stretch, and Mara whimpered as he bottomed out, arching into Marg’s teeth tugging at her nipples—the perfect distraction.

“All right?” came a whisper at her back.

“Mmmm,” she answered, incoherent and unable to think beyond the sensations centered below her waist. Marg pressed back inside as a sense of fullness, demanding complete abandon, took over. Mara sagged against the strong, damp chest at her back, surrendering to the double penetration. Marg’s lips never left her for long—his oral fixation was evident in his thoroughness as he pounded her relentlessly. He tasted every part of her, bending to lick a line of sweat from between her breasts, swallowing her cries along with kisses. His fingers were restless, drawing tingling pathways over her entire body.

As she began to get used to their syncopated thrusts, both men sped up, fucking her harder, faster. The pleasure evolved, pain coiling around the edges, as their rhythm abruptly shifted, cocks sliding inside her body together instead of in turn. Marc’s hipbones pushed into the muscle of her ass, pumping slower now by necessity, both men competing to find space inside her walls. It was so tight…and she could feel them both, wondering if—no, _knowing_ —they could feel one another. The thought produced an involuntary clench of her core, hurtling her once more towards orgasm. Marg leaned into her, driving from below, his mouth turning harsh as his tongue whipped at her skin.

Mara let out an animal wail as they continued their dual fucking, possessed by it, lost to the dreamlike, consuming rapture, the worship in Marg’s gaze, the devotion in Marc’s touch. This ability to provide—to host—so much pleasure, while simultaneously receiving, electrified her—charged her like a sensual current, something she wanted to drown in, damn reality or reason or common sense. The sheen of exertion on Marg’s chest, the glow in his eyes as his hands locked around her ankles, adjusting her legs… the eager squeeze of Marc’s fingers as they mapped every curve, probed every sensitive part of her, it was all too much and enough and everything. 

She came a second time, the whole of her body tightening in one, brilliant spasm as the contraction sent both clones to their synchronized climax. Neither withdrew, Marc supporting her waist as warmth overfilled her from both sides, strange and exhilarating and satisfying. 

All turned silent and still, except for panting, oxygen-starved breaths. 

With a slow, deliberate movement, Marg lowered her legs, pulling her gently into his arms. Those legs no longer wanted to function, and Mara collapsed against his chest, used up. Someone—or both of them—gently lay her on the bed as come leaked down the backs of her thighs.

They were there; they stayed. Marc, always thoughtful, attended to cleanup first, then lay his lips briefly on Mara's forehead before joining her in bed. Marg slid under the sheets on the other side, the line of his body completing the muscle-bound cradle surrounding her. His kiss was more tentative, questioning his right to her mouth, to her bed. She was too intoxicated by them both to think, wrung out by orgasms, the flames in her bloodstream far from extinguished despite her body’s exhaustion. Closing her eyes with a small smile, Mara let herself drift. Just before she slept, she heard low whispers…but couldn’t know who said what.

“Do you think she loves us?”

“I don’t know. But we can love her anyway.”


	4. The Fourth Clone

The trip to Tiss’sharl went faster than anticipated, probably because the days blurred together. The clones had moved into Mara's quarters, always ready for her, always wanting her. They seemed devoid of ego—when she didn’t have the energy or inclination for them both, they accepted her choice with no apparent ill-will. But after a few times, Mara realized she had no real desire to exclude. It was as if they lived to please her—they were insatiable, and had made her the same.

She often woke up with Marg’s tongue between her legs, or Marc’s lips brushing hers. Never had she allowed herself such wanton behavior. Clothes were rarely worn—Mara sometimes pulled on a robe, but the men wandered around comfortably naked. It was surreal as much as decadent, and if it weren’t for the aches in muscles she had forgotten she had, and the occasional love bite, Mara would have thought it just as likely to be a dream as anything else.

The clones’ skills in the bedroom were incredible, both intuitive and adaptive. The sex was beyond belief—she’d never had so many orgasms—or believed it possible—in her life. The reason why, she had discovered, was even more bizarre than she’d thought.

“Holoporn,” Marc pronounced to the ceiling from the floor, where everyone had most recently climaxed, “is full of lies.” Marg nodded solemnly in agreement and Mara rolled over by his side, propping her head on one hand, listening to the bizarre conversation. “You can tell when the participants really like it, you know? And when they’re lying.”

“Faking,” Marg clarified. “They _are_ actors, Marc. They have to pretend.”

“Right,” Marc agreed, sitting up. “But sometimes you can tell when they really like it.” He grinned at Mara, that smile she adored, no longer attempting to resist its lure. 

She grinned back easily, making a go-on gesture with her hand. “How can you tell? Something different about the moans or the ‘oh oh oh’s as they come?”

Both men shrugged, Marg sliding lower behind Mara and starting to spread her legs with a firm hand. “You just can,” he replied. “Maybe it’s the Force.”

Mara didn’t scoff as she might have earlier. She hadn’t watched enough holoporn herself to have made that observation, but she also assumed most of the actors in the skinholos weren’t exactly the best thespians.

“One of them, you know,” Marc turned to face Mara, scooting closer, and placed a chaste kiss on her nose, “she never faked. I watched her work a lot to see what she really liked.”

“Oh?” Mara couldn’t think of anything to say at that, unable to imagine studying porn for educational purposes, but equally unable to argue with the results. Her companions had quickly learned how to please her—unsurprising, as according to her holonet research, clones learned everything faster than typical sentients. It certainly explained their developed intellects after so brief a period of consciousness, as well as their talents in bed. As if to underscore the thought, Marg drew delicate whorls around her swollen clit, taking care not to overstimulate.

“What did she like? Who is she?"

Nuzzling against her neck, Marc slid one hand up her ribcage. His fingers framed the dome of her breast, a thumb lazily rubbing the nipple. 

“Everything you like. Her name was Karifia—”

“—Portadata!” Marg finished the name with him in unison, and both clones laughed. Of course they had been drawn to the same holoporn actress. Figured. Mara wondered vaguely if this woman was Skywalker’s favorite too. Maybe she’d have to hunt down a few of these Karifia Portadata classics. It wasn’t a name she was familiar with, that was for sure.

“I’ll send her a thank you comm,” Mara mumbled, as Marg lodged his cock inside her and Marc’s teeth closed over the tips of her breasts.

~~

The following afternoon, Mara’s lips were thinned by the stretch of Marc’s length down her throat, while her thighs straddled Marg’s head. He had a taste for every part of her, but was particularly fond of her cunt. Squirming with pleasure as he added another finger inside, Mara sucked harder on the man between her lips, closing her eyes and enjoying the pull of Marg's strategically-placed mouth at her clit. 

“Don’t forget her ass,” Marc breathed above her, but Marg had already directed one finger against the neglected opening. Mara pushed her hips back, encouraging, as the clone penetrated her there. She was spoiled now, taking them together as often as biology permitted. It didn’t matter, she told herself, too late to put the skifflin back in the sack. Once or ten or one hundred times, it wasn’t like the shame—or the madness—was exponential to the frequency. 

The proximity alert chimed, earlier than expected. Sithspit, had she really lost so much track of time? They had already arrived? Twisting away from lips and fingers and cock, her jaw aching, Mara fought to get to her feet. Marc, helpful as always, lifted her up gracefully, as if his erection wasn’t slick with saliva and precum and straining for release.

“What's wrong?”

“We’re coming out of hyperspace. I'm needed in the cockpit.” 

Marg was already standing, one muscled forearm wiping her juices from his chin, his other outstretched, offering her robe.

“Thanks,” Mara muttered, yanking it on and managing to drag herself into the corridor. She’d check the systems were all online, slide the ship into orbit, and return to finish what they’d started. Every nerve beneath her skin was screaming in outrage at the interruption.

A few minutes later, caf in hand, Mara watched the green-splattered world appear before her eyes. Jungles, that was what the navicomp had promised, and it certainly appeared to be correct. C’baoth had gone to a lot of trouble to spread these clones around the galaxy. She just hoped five were all he had. Two were already more than enough.

A flashing light on the control panel informed her a comm had been received. Must be for or from Karrde—it _was_ his ship, and he was the only one who knew she had it. But she was wrong.

_“Mara…”_

The unmistakable figure of Luke Skywalker appeared in blurry blue above the comm recorder. He looked…different. The angle made his face appear gaunt, and he was sporting several days’ scruff on his cheeks. The clothing hanging from his frame appeared to be some sort of ceremonial garb, but from no culture she recognized. Mara bit her lower lip. There was no way he could know what she'd been up to...but her conscience didn't care about logic, firing a guilty melange of hypotheticals into her thoughts, shadowed with things she refused to contemplate.

 _“Sorry to be brief. I know it sounds strange, but I had a feeling you needed…something. If you get this, I’ll be returning to Coruscant ten standard days from the timestamp. Meet me there? Or comm when you can.”_ A little smile appeared on his face, making him look extremely similar to Marc when the clone had executed some feat he’d proudly learned via holo. _“It would be good to see you.”_

The recording fizzled and blinked out. 

“I’m seeing _you_ everywhere, farmboy,” Mara sighed, fingertips stabbing pressure into her temples. She replayed the comm twice, but still couldn’t place his costume or discern any clues buried in the message. And dammit, Marc looked like _Skywalker_ , not the other way around, she railed at her own brain. Letting her head rest in the heel of one palm, Mara forced herself to confront what she’d been avoiding; Skywalker’s message had been a wake-up call. 

Her behavior recently had been ridiculous and selfish. She had to put a stop to this. Fucking Skywalker’s clones was complicated enough, but this reminder that he was out there, and she would have to somehow discuss his wishes—his _intentions_ —and come up with a plan for the clones without letting him know the extent of her involvement, was headache-inducing. And it didn't help that at the moment, his clones looked more like Skywalker than the man himself...

“Are you all right, Mara?”

Lifting her head, she spun in the chair, expecting Marc, given the solicitous query, but no, it was Marg there instead. His eyes were diffused with concern, lips pursed, an expression she’d seen far too often on Skywalker’s face.

“I’m fine,” she answered, suddenly exhausted. “We’ll be landing soon.”

The clone looked like he wanted to argue, then thought better of it. “Can I help?”

Mara cocked her head at him. She no longer thought Marg was a threat, not really, but she had neither the energy nor desire to teach him ship controls. Distrust was too ingrained.

“I’d love another cup of caf,” she said instead, holding out the empty mug.

“My pleasure,” he smiled, using Marc’s favorite phrase, and disappeared towards the galley. That smile. That smile was the same for _all_ of them, and always made her weak, melted her willpower to water. Force, she was losing her mind. Turning back to the nav, Mara punched in the calculations for orbital drift, and watched as the ship made the necessary adjustments. They could finish what they had started, she decided, but then this had to stop. She could explain; they would understand. Skywalker was always so kriffin’ understanding, why shouldn’t his clones be the same?

~~

Things didn’t go the way she’d planned on Tiss’sharl either, not that Mara should have been surprised. First of all, again both clones accompanied her planetside. The “bunker” this time was an actual mansion—estate, really—in the heart of the jungle. Security droids patrolled the perimeter, but Mara made quick work of the few they encountered. 

Secondly, C’baoth was there—just inside the entrance when they breached the main building. _Another_ C’baoth clone. A sickening swirl of Darkness rotted the edges of the Force, blackened and unnatural, the instant she stepped into the ostentatious foyer. Mara shoved her two companions backwards with the Force, then, before the C’baoth double could react or process, struck him down with her blade. This time, she was ready for the burst of wicked energy that surged through the room at his demise. It was all too familiar…but no less disturbing.

The corrupted doppelganger of the old Jedi never had time to say a word—its hands flew up, eyes wide, but then…swift and sudden death. It was better that way, Mara was certain. A clone like that—insane, Force-wielding—needed quick elimination, not a chance to plead its case. Neither of her companions voiced any complaints about her actions. Marc, in fact, exuded relief. Mara was certain he was growing stronger in the Force every day, and likely had felt the same oppressive wrongness that she had at the clone’s presence.

“Thank you Mara,” he said, picking himself off the floor where she’d Force-thrown him. “He was a bad copy.”

“Yes,” she replied softly. “He was.”

They explored the mansion thoroughly. Marg found the laboratory with Spaarti cylinders in an east wing. There were three, not one unit, as the data had indicated. One device was empty. Another held a creature she didn’t recognize, something monstrous and reeking of evil. The third…a Luuke. A Skywalker clone that was close to—if not already at—maturity.

“This one—” Marg pointed at the non-Skywalker clone, “is a bad copy. I can feel it.”

Marc nodded and turned to Mara, determination lining his face, creasing his forehead. He looked more like his ‘original’ than ever in that moment. “How do we keep it from being born?”

“Like this,” she replied coldly, yanking the life-support tubes from the cylinder that sustained the monster. “And just to be sure…” she pulled out her blaster, seeing Marc flinch.

“What about him?” This from Marg, who was staring intently at the sleeping Skywalker clone in its suspended animation.

“The same.” Mara walked over to pull out the tubes, but wavered at the look on Marg’s face.

“He doesn’t feel like a bad copy Mara. I think he could be like us.”

Gritting her teeth, Mara shook her head. “I can’t take that chance.”

“Please.”

“I can’t just leave him here. As long as he’s alive, he’s dangerous.”

“We’ll take him with us,” said Marc. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure he’ll be like us. And if he turns out to be bad, you can…” he pointed to her weapon. “We won’t let anyone hurt you Mara.”

“We won’t,” Marg echoed. “I would kill him myself.”

Mara postponed the decision by climbing atop the other cylinder and blasting the creature floating within. Its life signs immediately ceased, the sense of wrongness in the chamber evaporating. Back on the ground, she glared at the two men awaiting her verdict. And holstered her blaster. Seven hells.

~~

The new clone couldn’t speak, at least not very well. After seven hours of consciousness, it appeared to understand simple phrases and could make odd, unsettling noises. Marc was patient, and Marg was resourceful, and progress seemed to be made.

They named their new brother Marv. Marg had liked some holovid about a droid rights revolution whose human ringleader was called Marv. He decided it was a good name for a clone of "a famous Rebel hero," and it fell within their misunderstood nomenclature parameters. Marc agreed. Mara took out the Merenzane Gold again. She was definitely losing her mind.

They had ransacked the estate for supplies; finally the clones wore clothes that didn’t look like they had been rummaged from a supply closet. Marc was wearing a rather too-elegant dark blue tunic, with ruffles of bardottan silk at the throat and wrists, and finely woven black pants that were wonderfully tight. The flood of desire Mara had suffered upon his appearance hadn’t faded yet. Skywalker never wore things like that, but here was proof that he could pull it off, if only his austere style would permit. Marg had donned an everyday tunic in an Endor green, and grey cotton pants with large pockets. The neck of the thin shirt stretched a low V down his sternum, highlighting the broadness of his chest and collarbones. Mara stared a little when he showed up too.

The brothers had chosen simple and warm clothes for Marv. He was wearing an orange undertunic with a thick knit jacket, and plain white pants that looked like something you would find in a medbay. The newly hatched clone had been cold—a feeling both his brethren remembered well, apparently—and was currently wrapped in three blankets in the guest cabin.

Mara was still shaken from the encounter with a new C’baoth. She had never wished for Skywalker’s presence as much as she did now—he’d have understood the creature needed to die; he wouldn’t question her actions. Much as the clones trusted her, she could tell that the murders had bothered them. The unexpected enemy and that embryonic monster seemed unarmed opponents to unknowing eyes, no matter what their fledgling Force senses had conveyed. Inexplicably angry at all three clones and herself, Mara retreated to the sonic. Ten days. They would all be Skywalker’s problem in ten days. She’d fly to Coruscant and dump them in his lap with a wave and a good riddance.

The warm spray wasn’t soothing as she hoped, and when Mara closed her eyes she saw the face of the warped Dark Jedi—threatening her, Force lightning flying from his fingers, insanity spewing from his lips. There weren’t supposed to be more of _him_ in the galaxy, but she should have been prepared, at least considered the possibility. She was losing her touch, getting distracted by the oversexed companions she’d picked up on this poorly-planned mission. She needed to be ready for more “bad copies,” and stop fucking around with the good ones.

A few minutes later, as if summoned, Marg came to join her. He didn’t say anything, didn't want anything. Strong arms wrapped her, just holding her close. His embrace was fortifying and frightening. She could come apart and he would put her back together—there was so much confidence in his strength, so much acceptance in his lips. Mara knew she was an idiot, feeling things about these clones, letting herself drown in such an improbable sensual deluge. But as much as she tried to pretend they weren’t real, or weren’t human, not in the same way Skywalker was, she no longer was certain of her own beliefs where their individuality and autonomy was concerned. If anything, they were nicer than most sentients she encountered.

“I can feel your conflict, Mara,” Marg said plainly, toweling her off like a droid servant in the refresher after she’d stepped out. “But we would never do anything to hurt you. You _or_ Luke Skywalker. Marc and I talked about it…we can get surgery, change our appearance. To not be a threat.”

Squeezing water from her hair, Mara first registered the growing strength of Marg’s Force abilities, then considered his proposed solution. It wasn’t a bad one, actually. Not a bad idea at all. They could get new identities, new faces. Karrde might be able to help with that. And he would, she was certain. He had a soft spot for the Jedi, and could be counted on to keep the entire debacle under wraps.

“If that’s what you want,” she managed, “I’ll see what we can do.”

He placed a kiss on the top of one thigh as he dried her shins, looking up with a soft smile. “You won’t want us anymore then, though, will you?”

Mara scoffed, pushing him away and reaching for a fresh tunic. “That’s ridiculous.”

The clone’s smile stayed on as he got to his feet, dressing as well. “Marc is in love with you.”

“He shouldn’t be,” she snapped before she could help herself. “It’s just sex.”

“Maybe I’m in love with you too.” His voice was logical, considering, as if he’d analyzed all potential for opposing outcomes and arrived at this possibility.

“You don’t even know me. You can’t be in love with me.”

“Are there rules about how to fall in love?”

It seemed to be a serious question, and Mara decided to answer. “No. But there should be,” she returned. "There definitely should be."

~~

Marv, like the other clones, learned rapidly, and his brothers were capable teachers. He was more easily frustrated than the other two though, and less patient with himself. Sometimes Mara thought he didn’t sleep, instead spending shipboard night reciting words whose meanings he hadn’t yet parsed, the sounds drilled into his head by holos and simple texts they had found to teach him. The dedication bore fruit however. They were almost to Yaga Minor when he began speaking quite confidently, in short, but connected and flowing sentences. Appearing in the cockpit one morning, he smiled at Mara, that same damn magnificent smile they all had.

“Hello Mara. Greetings. I'm happy today. I'm in a good mood right now. I was reading with Marc. We read.”

She tried to smile back, pulling her attention away from the datapad in her fingers. The repetition of meaning was one of Marg’s pedagogical techniques, teaching Marv several ways to say the same thing. She thought it was overkill, but the method seemed effective.

“That’s nice Marv. I’m happy you’re happy. Are you hungry?”

He was constantly hungry. The clones had explained to her that both of them had been ravenous after ‘birth,’ something that took weeks to go away, apparently. They had been feeding Marv almost ten ration bars a day, in addition to regular meals, which fortunately she’d restocked by looting the fourth clone estate’s kitchens.

“I'm always hungry,” he laughed. “I want to eat all the time.”

“I know,” she smiled again, more genuine this time. “Can I help you with something?”

The question gave him pause, and she offered it again, slower. This was just temporary, she reminded herself. Marv was currently limited by language, but just as mature, smart and perceptive as the other two. At least this one hadn’t had a chance to get addicted to holoporn. _Not yet,_ her brain mocked. _Just give him a few more weeks with those other chi’kans aboard._

“Can I. Help you. With something?”

His beautiful blue eyes widened in comprehension, the smile almost splitting his face with delight.

“I understand now, Mara. No, thank you, I'm fine.” He looked so earnest it hurt. "Thank you," he said again, probably because he didn't know any other way to repeat that sentiment.

“Great.”

“Great,” he repeated. “Luke Skywalker is a great man.”

Perfect, she’d picked a word he knew in exactly one context. The clones had placed Skywalker on some sort of pedestal. First, Marc because he saw the man as his genetic “donor,” then Marg because he knew far too much about the Galactic Civil War and New Republic campaigns, and now Marv was getting both views. Easier to agree than debate, as usual with these clones. It _was_ a good thing they didn’t see Skywalker as a threat to their survival. That was a very good thing.

“Yes, Marv. A great Jedi. A nice man.”

“A nice man,” he repeated. “Like me.”

Nodding, Mara stood up. She wasn’t going to get anything done with Marv practicing his Basic with her. 

“Yes, Marv. Like you. And like Marc and Marg. Very nice men.” She gestured to the hallway. “Let’s get a caf.” Marv made a face that was almost comical. She had forgotten he didn’t like caf. The others did. “Hot chocolate for you, caf for me, all right?”

“Yes, Mara. Thank you.”

~~

Two days later, she lay in her bunk, exhausted. Not by sex, not this time. She’d been attempting some of the Jedi meditation poses Skywalker had taught her, trying to center and calm herself, and pulled a damn muscle. Her left thigh ached, her hip felt like a vibroblade had run through it. The irony was almost as sharp as the pain.

The door swished open and Marc entered, a small bottle in his hand.

“I found some kolto ointment, Mara. May I?”

She turned face-down on the bed, letting him pull off her pants and basics, sighing as his hands began working the muscles. The salve was cooling and dulled the pain immediately, but she wasn’t going to complain about a massage. Closing her eyes, Mara enjoyed the feel of his hands smoothing along her legs, pressing deep into the tissue of her hips and lower back.

In the background of her bliss, she heard the door swish again. Two more hands joined Marc’s on her skin. With a sigh, Mara wiggled deeper into the bunk’s thin mattress. Now four hands were working her back, shoulders, ass, and legs. It was heavenly. And her neck too, kneading knuckles along the line of her nape, pressing firmly, fingertips rubbing her scalp and applying pressure along her temples. 

Six…there were six hands.

Mara tensed, but the clones’ hands didn’t slow, didn’t pause, doggedly coaxing out knots, rubbing relaxation into her bones as she argued internally, fought with her own sense of propriety, called herself any number of slurs, and ultimately capitulated to the brain-melting indulgence of six purposeful hands all over her body. 

As the massage continued, their ministrations blurred from therapeutic to erotic. The hand stroking the hard muscle of her thigh grazed the lips of her cunt, another hand whose heel had been circling the curve of her ass shifted, fingers drifting between her cheeks, a tip teasing the ring of her asshole. The palms moving evenly up the planes of her back fell to her sides, brushing the swell of her breasts, and then she really didn’t care anymore, lifting her hips, opening her legs, allowing full access to her body. Nothing hurt—the pain long since departed; everything felt delicious and good. Keeping her eyes closed, she turned her face to the side. Soft, heated fingers traced her mouth. Mara lapped at them, sucking two between her lips. The mattress dipped from the weight of a knee alongside her ear. Her own heartbeat was all Mara could hear as fingers were gently replaced with a stiff cock, already glazed with precum, slipping down her throat. Her hips were hinged up higher as knowing fingers spread her wide, then an impatient tongue dove into her ass, making her squirm. One of the clones maneuvered his head beneath her, a second set of lips exploring her cunt, fingers hooking inside.

The massage had left her pliable and relaxed, and now Mara was wonderfully helpless. The two skillful tongues twisted inside her as she sighed around the cock between her lips, all the while hands continued to smooth and massage her skin. All her sleepy senses were being stoked alight by the hedonistic pampering of flesh against flesh, muscle pressing hard to muscle, hair and tongues and fingers and legs entwining and caressing. She drifted and was tossed by the waves of a well-coordinated sexual storm, serving the clones by being served, feeling their delight at her pleasure, their satisfaction at her reception.

After what felt a delirious and impossible amount of time, all three withdrew. Mara reached up blindly, lazy with pleasure, to touch the clone nearest. Instead her hand flopped heavily to the mattress. There was a soft chuckle as she was shifted onto the side, strong hips bracketing her body. Long fingers lifted her top leg straight up as a different erection pressed between her lips.

“Mmm…” she approved, crying out as the emptiness in her body was soon filled. The now-slick channel of her ass welcomed and clenched around the thick cock that forced its way deep, as her cunt was stretched to its limits by another. Rather than thrusting, her lovers rocked their hips slowly, the pace unhurried and sweet, as Mara sucked harder on the man between her lips. She had never felt so perfect, so complete. The taste and smell of their sex, the feel of these men in her bed and body, it was all so much better than a dream. 

The three moved leisurely, penetrating every hole in rhythm, leaving her deprived and overfilled with flawless, inexorable timing. When she finally came, it was in slow-motion, a rising tide of sensation. The briefest friction against her clit dissolved everything into dull aches of pleasure that spiraled along her nerves to each extremity. Splinters of sharper ecstasy followed as her partners surrendered to mounting orgasm. The one in her mouth came first, and Mara sucked down the bitter flood, her hands languidly keeping those hips in place, taking every drop. The second one held deep in her ass as he erupted, heat spreading into her belly as he came in spurts. Mara tightened her inner walls around him, drawing a marvelous groan from his lips. Marg…she decided. That was Marg…and then the clone in her cunt withdrew, hips jerking in a stuttered climax that battered against her own skin. Stickiness dripped from her stomach to the sheets. Marv... Curious for his taste, Mara swiped a finger through the messy trail and put it between her lips. The same as the others—that exotic, mellow flavor they all shared.

Sated, dazed, she collapsed against the broad chest behind her and blinked opened her eyes, seeing Marc already handling clean up.

“Three…” she whispered at the sight, almost to herself. “Three of...of _you_.”

Marg encased her in his arms, scooting them both to one side of the bed to make room for the other two. Marv lay down next to her, and Marc behind him, draping an arm across the new clone to rub a thumb over her reddened lips.

“And one of you,” he answered softly, that all too familiar, uneven mouth tilted in amusement. It was the last thing Mara saw before she let sleep take her.


	5. The Fifth Clone

Yaga Minor was molded by caves and mountains. Mara had never been there, but had gleaned info about the landscape thanks to records of the _Outbound Flight_ debacle. She set the _Raised Ante_ down in a small clearing near an abandoned dindra field, about a klik from their destination. Marc volunteered to stay with Marv on the ship; everyone tacitly agreed the newest brother was best kept from whatever awaited on the surface. Marg accompanied Mara to see to the fate of the fifth clone.

As they moved over the rocky terrain, Mara’s senses flared at a powerful ripple in the Force. Nothing overtly threatening, but it _was_ out of place here, like a strong current in a tiny pond. She fingered her lightsaber and kept it at the ready as they approached the cavern stronghold that marked the location of the final Spaarti cylinder. 

The door had an Imperial code, but Ghent’s master key sliced it effortlessly. Marg, looking for all the world like a seasoned mercenary, took up a flanking position to her left. Too many war holos in his abbreviated past, no doubt. Still, Mara was glad he stayed behind her, just in case trouble awaited ahead.

They moved inside, keeping that formation, towards a nondescript portal at the far end of a dark corridor. This one was motion-activated, and slid aside as she approached. Flinging herself into the room, Mara gripped the saber tightly at the sight before her. Not one, but _two_ Luukes, sitting at a table, eating something that wafted a piquant heat across the space. 

Two of them. Self-released. Shavit.

Eyes narrowed, Mara tried to focus over her alarm. One wore a purple jumpsuit that was far too big for him, the other dressed in plain black clothes. Looking a lot like Skywalker, actually. Stunned, she turned off her weapon just as he spoke.

“Mara!”

Surprise rolled across the room, infused in the Force as well as his exclamation. Mara worked to stifle the same emotion, along with all the others churning in her guts. The Jedi stood up, the expression on his face stuck between confusion and happiness. She had seen a similar look on all the clones quite often, and recognized it easily.

“Skywalker.” It was amazing how she managed to sound far more composed than she felt. “What are you doing here?”

Cocking his head, as if he may not have heard correctly, Skywalker gestured with an open palm towards the clone at the table, then turned it towards Marg. He didn’t smile as he met her wary eyes. 

“Same thing as you, looks like.”

Her hands fisted, the hilt of her lightsaber digging into her skin. “I’m…”

Marg interrupted. “General Skywalker, it’s an honor to meet you.” He stepped forward and held out a hand. “I am assisting Mara in her search for bad copies, sir.” Skywalker shook Marg’s hand without hesitation, glancing a question at Mara over his clone’s broad shoulder. “Not all clones are like the one you encountered on Wayland. My brothers and I have no wish to harm you.”

“Thank you,” Skywalker replied with his trademark sincerity. “That’s good to hear. And please call me Luke.” He pulled out a chair and indicated it with his dimpled chin. “Just how many brothers do you have?”

He didn’t look at her for a response, staying focused on his double. Mara felt completely cut out of the conversation and couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or bad. 

“Two others.” Marg considered the clone sitting at the table. “So four of us, now. One died before Mara could rescue him.” Mara stiffened, but Skywalker didn’t react, other than a brief softening of his features. “His name was Marn.” 

“Marn…” Skywalker echoed quietly. “You have names.” 

“Yes, General—Luke. My name is Marg. My brothers Marc and Marv are on the ship. Mara let us name ourselves.” 

“Did she?” Skywalker glanced her way again, no longer than a blink, and then turned to the clone in the purple outfit. “You don’t have a name yet, do you?”

“No.” The clone’s voice was low, uncertain. Marg jumped right in, ready to help. Marc really had rubbed off on him.

“Clones have one letter different from their donor’s name. Mara didn’t reveal that name, at first, so we used hers.” Marg sat down in the chair Luke had offered then, comfortable with his topic. “So you could do the same. Or Luke’s name, I think.” The clone’s hands squeezed his knees, anxious. “If he doesn’t mind.”

Skywalker looked amazingly calm, and just leaned back in his chair, shaking his head once. “I don’t mind.”

The nameless clone looked at Mara, then Skywalker, then back to Mara. His eyes gleamed with intelligence, a somehow keener look than his brothers’. Finally his gaze settled on Marg. “Must it be the last letter that’s different?”

“I don’t know.” Marg turned to her in question. “Are there rules about what letter is changed, Mara?”

She’d never bothered to explain, after Marc’s initial misunderstanding, that in her experience, a letter was _added_ , not changed. It hadn’t seemed important before—superfluous. Now, with four clones, the omission seemed like a horrible oversight. But to go into it here—

“No rules,” Skywalker saved her from answering. “Choose whatever name you like. Even if it isn’t like mine or Mara’s.”

“Really?” This in unison, from both of them.

Luke nodded, but Marg looked to her for confirmation. Mara cleared her throat. “Really. No rules.”

The clone blushed, an unexpected reaction, then sat up straighter in his chair, hands flat on the table. “Then I’ll be Omar. Like the poet.” He hesitated, then plowed onward, justifying his choice. “It _is_ one letter different from Mara.”

Like the _poet_?! Mara scoured her memory. She sensed Skywalker’s ignorance, but had already unearthed the reference.

“Omar Berenko?” She saw from the light on the new clone’s face she had guessed correctly. “He wrote epic, romantic poetry centuries ago,” Mara explained for the benefit of the others. Berenko’s _Defense of Naboo_ had been something she’d been forced to read as part of her cultural education, and while it was boring in subject, it was, she had to admit, beautiful in language. How long had this clone been around? What holos and datapads had he accessed in that time? So Skywalker’s genetic makeup had birthed a daytime holo-addict, a military history buff, and now a _poet_? Did Skywalker even _like_ poetry? The question appeared, inane and poorly-timed, in her brain.

“Yes!” beamed the clone. Omar, she supposed she should think of him now.

“There is an old text here…” Omar stood, practically bouncing with excitement, and moved across the room to a small cot, returning with a slim volume of bound flimsy, which he handed over gingerly. Skywalker accepted it with the same care, a sense of ritual in the transfer. “They all…I like them all, but the one called ‘Wounds of the Penitents’ is…is…” He couldn’t find words, apparently, and a brief smile crossed the Jedi’s face. 

“I’ll look forward to reading it,” he said gently. “ Omar. Do you mind staying here with Marg a little while? I’m going to take a walk with Mara.”

Dread, clotted and sour, curdled in her veins. Now came the confrontation—the disapproval. She hadn’t _really_ done anything wrong, besides keeping the existence of his clones secret with the intention to kill them, and then fucking them… all of them… Well, except this new one of course, but other than that…

Marg’s blue eyes shone with a knowing glint. Unchecked lust roiled through the Force—the clone’s ideas of things about to happen as raunchy as one of his cursed holos. Clearly Marg interpreted “walk” as some sort of euphemism, and like Marc, doubted all her denials regarding the nature of her relationship with Skywalker. Perverts. She was hosting an army of clone perverts.

~~

They exited the building into the fading daylight. Skywalker’s pace was easy, unhurried, his shields tight, no visible acknowledgement of Marg’s indecent parting thoughts. The clones’ unwitting donor looked better than he had on the holo, Mara had to admit. Not as tired, clean-shaven, and while he could—as usual—use a haircut, she had no complaints about the shaggy waves atop his head. The clones had gotten her used to that look. She tried to push thoughts of the duplicates from her brain—Marg had already given Skywalker more than enough ammunition against her with his clearly projected display. She didn’t have a good explanation yet, having believed she had at least a few days to come up with a story to spin on Coruscant. Thus, Mara was still frantically rehearsing things to say when her companion stopped just a short distance from the entrance.

“Mara…” She imagined Skywalker’s censure in the Force.

“I know.” The words should have been chipped with rectitude, but came out a mumble, intimidated by his presence and the fact that she’d been kissing those lips—or very good facsimiles of those lips—for the past few weeks. “I thought it would be easier—better—if I just took care of it.”

Skywalker’s all-too-familiar face was unreadable, his jaw set. “I understand. But it was too dangerous to go alone—you could have run into another C’baoth…or a Palpatine.” Mara bit her tongue, debating how much to explain. “Not to mention the fact you took it upon yourself to destroy these clones without ever telling me they existed.”

“I tried!” 

The look in his eyes was skeptical, a disapproving smear of negativity coloring his aura. The damn Force was worse than Bavo Six serum.

“Well,” she amended, “after the first one. I commed. You weren’t reachable. _Dark_.” Mara sneered the word, fortified by this truth. “I even contacted NR Ops, trying to track you down.” She slowed, the wind ruffling his hair, the small quirk of his mouth too damn distracting. “I wanted… wanted you to know, when…” Shavit. Skywalker was just…staring at her, like he could read her thoughts, see where the lies were couched in her words. With a slow inhale, Mara plunged on. “I got your message. We were _going_ to meet you on Coruscant—”

“I said I understand.” He cut her off with a fleeting smile, perhaps unimpressed with her excuses. One hand touched her shoulder, angling her better towards him. There was a partially-healed cut slashed across his knuckles. Where had he been? Mara looked from his fingers on her sleeve to his face, hard as it was. There was a wrinkle in his brow, that finely-drawn jaw set, that mouth too similar to one that made her come this morning slightly parted. Skywalker looked… _alive_ , so vibrant. The sight robbed her of speech.

“You really planned to kill them all?” His look turned searching, splashed with disbelief. The anger…no, not anger, the _frustration_ he’d exuded a moment ago had been tamed underneath that placid “Master Skywalker” gaze. It drove her nuts, how he summoned righteous serenity while she felt stability slipping through her fingers like Fleek eels the longer she stared at him. “To save me the trouble?”

“Yes.” Mara grit her teeth. “That was the plan.”

“And now?”

“I _will_ kill them, Skywalker, if that’s what you want.”

Blue eyes rounded, jaw slackening, quickly controlled. She’d surprised him with that. Surprised herself, really, at the vehemence stuffed into the lie.

“Why would I want that?” His voice didn’t betray his feelings, the question delivered as calmly as one could ask about the weather in the capital today. Damn his self-control. It only made Mara more conscious of her own recent lapses in that area.

“They’re clones! They could impersonate you, or worse. They _know_ it—they’ve discussed it. Marc is already sensitive to the Force, and I think the others will be also, once they develop more, figure out how to tap into their abilities.”

“Marc, huh?”

After all that, the _name_ was what he seized on? Shaking her head, Mara felt more foolish than ever, taking a step back, away from him. Skywalker was too close. “What was I supposed to call them?!” she spat. “Luuuke and Luuuuke? Or Clones One, Two and Three?!”

A little huff of laughter. “I guess not.” He squared his shoulders, hair falling across his forehead. Small lines edged those blue eyes as Skywalker checked the clearing, looking back at the bunker where two of his clones waited. “Let’s take that walk. Tell me what happened.”

~~

It was, to put it mildly, awkward. Skywalker, to his credit and her annoyance, was even-tempered as usual. Other than a few pointed criticisms related to being out of the loop on her quest as a whole, he accepted what Mara told him. He even offered sympathy when she detailed her encounter with the C’baoth clone presiding over Marv’s cylinder, instead of the “I told you so” she was anticipating.

She did _not_ tell him about the clones’ propensity for holoporn, nor the fact she was fucking them. If Skywalker had questions as to how her light transport berthed four, he didn’t voice them.

When she finished, he explained how he’d found them. Ghent had been the weak link. She should have guessed. Skywalker had checked in with Karrde’s operation last week, sensing something was “strange,” as he put it. The Jedi’s steps slowed as he delivered that information, eyes flicking to hers in an invitation to contribute. Mara had zero intention of taking him up on the offer, and at her silence, he continued.

Karrde had immediately offered the ship’s comm channel up (she’d obviously been right about her employer having a soft spot for Skywalker), but then Ghent handed over the location data he’d sliced, telling Skywalker she was “interested” in the information. Digging her heels a little harder into the mossy earth, Mara frowned. The slicer needed a talking to…

“So you found me,” she said when Skywalker finished. 

“Fortunately. I headed to the nearest coordinates, hoping I might pick up your ship on the scanner. And there was Omar,” Skywalker said. “I arrived just a few hours before you showed up. I think he was ‘born’ over a year ago. Maybe the earliest one in the batch.” His tone lowered, reflective. “He’s been through a lot. There was a C’baoth clone with him as well. He told me he was trained physically, probably starting to be groomed like Luuke was…” His eyes hardened. “It was an abusive situation, from what I can gather. One morning, C’baoth was simply gone. And Omar never searched for him.”

Skywalker’s easy use of the clone’s new name was noticed, but Mara wasn’t sure what it signified, if anything. “Does that mean _another_ C’baoth is still out there?”

“I doubt it,” Skywalker said. “My guess is the C’baoth we encountered together had a second made, likely as the caretaker for the group, to survey their development. That would have been the one you killed.” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t have wanted too many like him—it would have meant sharing power.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Me too.”

They walked without speaking for a few minutes, circling in a wide loop around a fallen tree and turning back the way they had come. Mara’s eyes stayed lowered, unreasonably drawn to his knee-high black boots, his footsteps as they crunched dry leaves beneath the heels.

“Marg…” Skywalker broke the détente, his voice sounding too loud over the soundtrack of jungle chirps and trills. An unpleasant heat crept over her collar at the name. “He—” 

Mara suspected what was coming. “I know,” she interrupted, irritation closing her throat. “I _know_ , I’m dealing with it.”

“Dealing with _what_?” Stopping mid-stride, Skywalker turned to confront her. His demeanor had changed, his presence in the Force more guarded. A defensive, stormy disruption in his aura—or maybe it was hers—swirled like a chilly pocket of air around them. He peered at her, tone challenging. “What was I going to say?” Then he had the audacity to laugh, a crisp bark so unlike the niceness of his usual mirth that it was even more aggravating than it should have been. Nothing was funny about any of this.

Mara felt her stomach tighten at the questions, ugliness unfurling and yanking a response from her tongue. “That Marg can’t shield? That you received his…” she winced, finding a word, “…his _broadcast_ back there?”

“Yeah.”

Both of them knew the clone had thought more than a few erotic things in the cloning facility. Things that were not conveniently explained away as idle fantasies.

“Are you…?”

“Drop it, Skywalker.”

He said something under his breath and started walking again, his tread somehow heavier. Mara didn’t catch it exactly, but it sounded like the condemnation she’d been expecting. Skidding to a halt, indignation and shame burned through her blood.

“What?! Spit it out.”

“You just told me to drop it.” 

Damn that matter-of-fact statement, that calm delivery. And damn him for being right. Now Mara was even more embarrassed by her reaction. A flush flamed her cheeks, a sting building behind her eyes. This was such a mess. She’d known it would be…but…

“Look,” Skywalker said then, with a small shrug. “I’m confused. You told me a minute ago that you’d be willing to _kill_ them, but that’s obviously not the case,” he held up a finger, “not that I’m asking. I don’t want anyone dead. And now I see there’s something between you two.” The even voice was gone, catching on the last word. The hand lowered, his posture shifting, shoulders tense and somehow…off center. “So. I’m … I didn’t know…didn’t think…”

 _You two._ You two, he’d said. 

“Skywalker.”

“Call me Luke already, Mara.” The words were tired, saturated with something faded and dispirited, as if he already knew she would refuse.

“ _Skywalker_ ,” she repeated, predictably ignoring his request. She couldn’t be swayed from her discourse, despite the uncertainty his response stoked in her brain. “There’s _nothing_ between us. It’s…” She groaned, looking up to the jungle canopy, not even sure why or exactly what she was attempting to explain. “I don’t _know_ what it is. It just happened, all right? First the mission got messed up, and then everything else got messed up too.” Crossing her arms, she hardened her eyes, as steely as she could make them, to meet his.

They stared at one another a beat after her confession, Skywalker’s mouth thinning, Mara’s head spinning. There hadn’t been time to plan an answer, but she definitely would have come up with something different, given the opportunity. Too late now.

“What about Marc?” Skywalker asked then, apparently trying to inject some levity into the situation. “He’s not feeling like a third wheel?”

She hadn’t known or dared to imagine how he would take the news, but Mara certainly hadn’t expected a joke. Hadn’t thought Skywalker would just let it go, or tease her about her own stupid lack of self-control. Her _repeated_ lack, that had stabbed her with guilt and confusion over the past few weeks. Skywalker really didn’t care if she was sleeping with his clone? Good. All the better. That made everything so much simpler.

“Marc was the _first_ wheel,” Mara growled, pushing past, away from him. Quickly. “Marg was the _second_.”

He jogged to keep up. “Wait! Mara…” When she sped up instead, he overtook her, barricading the path with arms spread. “Mara!”

Hands on hips, she glared at being blocked. Maybe boldness was the way to go. If she wasn’t ashamed of it, then…maybe there was nothing to be ashamed of. “ _Marv’s_ the third wheel,” she muttered under her breath, knowing Skywalker would hear it anyway.

“Mara…they’re my clones. They…look like me.”

“I _have_ noticed that Skywalker.” He raised an unkempt eyebrow. “Fine! _Luke_!” She was almost shouting now, all the stress bubbling inside her chest with nowhere to go. “They _do_ look like you. But not _enough_ like you.” The eyebrow lifted higher on his forehead as she continued. “They’re too pale, for one thing. Don’t have your tan,” she flapped a hand towards him in illustration. “They’re so…new…They don’t have your scars.” Her fingers pointed higher, indicating his head. “Your laugh lines. The sun-streaks in your hair, that weird bend in your nose.” Luke smiled then, those laugh lines that she had just mentioned bracketing his lips, crinkling his eyes. He took a step closer to her and Mara’s heartbeat accelerated.

“What else?” he asked, timbre low in the darkening forest.

Well, of course she could go on. She’d thought about _this_. “Your accent. They have your voice, but not that Outer Rim sandsurfer way of speaking.”

“Anything more?”

“Your hands,” she continued, her own voice faltering slightly. “Their hands are too soft and…unused.”

Luke took her fingers in his, looking down at them. “And mine are…?”

“Rough…and…and…”

“…not unused.” He took her earlier, strange adjective. It had obviously made an impression.

“Right. Not unused.” Everything was off-balance, a bright haze forming in her mind, clouding thought as Luke’s hands on hers tightened. His chest, the notch of his collarbones was right in front of her, the steady pulse in his neck obstructing her vision and path. He wasn’t angry…his shields were still tight but…

“They don’t really walk like you either, or…move like you…it’s very…” Luke’s fingers had threaded in hers, underscoring just how incriminating her testimony had been. Unable to face the subject of her realization, Mara lowered her eyes. The toes of their boots were almost touching. 

“Very what?” he whispered. She didn’t answer, and Luke let one of her hands drop, his index finger lifting her chin.

“Very…” she trailed off, at the sight of him, the heat in his look warming her from the inside. Even his striking eyes, she realized, they really were different. Luke’s blue was tempered and refined, deeper, somehow, despite the similar shade, bearing the weight of all they had witnessed and suffered.

As she contemplated, he leaned in and kissed her.

Kissing Skywalker’s clones over the past few weeks should have prepared her for those lips—after all, they were the same shape, the same flavor. But there was a truth here, something real, steeped in intimacy and understanding. Luke knew her as his clones did not. He accepted her completely, her limitations, even her failings. He saw her as she was—and always had—not as some idealized rescuer or convenient female. 

Her eyes fell closed as Luke deepened the kiss, and Mara tried to lose herself in it as she had with Marc just weeks ago. Give in, don’t think, let yourself enjoy, and damn the consequences. It’s just a kiss. People do it all the time.

It wasn’t working, though. Luke—the real Luke—actually _holding_ her, _kissing_ her, was too much to believe. This was more bizarre than all that had led to this moment. Mara’s heart stopped in her chest, everything dizzy and dangerous. Because this time, there _were_ consequences. There was no going back from this, she knew it, felt it in the hollow of her stomach, in the surge of overheated blood, in the touch of yielding lips, the soaring pressure in her chest. Surrendering to Luke’s kiss was like falling into a welcome abyss of inescapable sunlight that offered no exit, no shadows to hide in. If she couldn’t separate now from the passion of his tongue and the claim of his hands on her ass, pulling her tight against his well-outlined erection, it was already too late. Mara knew this with a bright, beckoning certainty, and with equal certainty she knew this was where she belonged. Like she’d told Marg…there truly were no rules, and even if there had been, Mara would have shredded every last one of them to stay right here, helpless in his embrace. She understood now what she’d be abandoning if she tried to stop, and nothing was worth that price.

The circle of his lean arms held her as if to prevent that hypothetical flight, and Mara clutched at his cloak, pressing closer, desperate and ready. She panted for air as Luke’s hands split open her suit, moving up and inside, one calloused palm pressing firm and reassuring against the muscles of her back. Their lips separated, only a second, then his other hand was at the back of her head, holding her steady and strong as their mouths met again. Pleasure streaked along her nerves, shooting to her groin as Mara remembered that she had hands too, and wanted them on him, all over him.

She lifted the cloak from his shoulders as he shrugged out of it, lips never leaving hers for long. It fell to the ground unnoticed as Luke picked her up effortlessly by the thighs, pushing her against the nearest tree. Her nimble fingers latched on to his belt, fighting with the clasp until it came free.

“Here?” she asked, a pointless question really, as he already had the bottom half of her flight suit around her hips.

“Here,” he answered, the syllable ragged with impatience. Luke punctuated the confirmation with a fierce kiss, bruising and determined. “I’ll share you later, but not now.”

The promise scorched like wildfire, burning straight to her core, its heat soaking her basics. Weakened and unwilling to examine why, Mara arched into him, throwing her heart into their kiss. Luke’s fingers ducked beneath the thin material at her crotch, shoving it to the side and sliding two fingers knuckle-deep without hesitation. He was rough, intuitively targeting everything she liked, as if he’d already taken notes from his clones. And his kisses were as merciless as his fingerfucking, pulling moans from her lips with expertise. The smug upturn of his mouth as she rapidly came, bucking against the heel of his hand, should have been annoying, but Mara was beyond caring, the images in her rhapsodic thoughts jumbled with his. Skywalker _wanted_ to fuck her like she wanted, wanted to _share_ her like she wanted… He wasn’t upset, he was turned on by it all, as evidenced by the rigid cock that rushed to replace his fingers in her cunt without a gap in rhythm.

“Fuck,” she groaned as he lifted her legs from the earth, pinning her to the tree. His cock, his kisses, felt more real than anything else around them—more substantial than the bark at her back, the dirt beneath his boots, or the dense canopy above. They had both been so foolish, wanting this, resisting, denying, as if this denouement hadn’t always been inevitable. The feel of Luke’s body connected to hers was shot with relief as much as longing. It was nothing at all like fucking his clones. This man’s fingers were wiser, his kisses more complicated, his cock more possessive, his heartbeat the rhythmic partner to her own.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Mara hung on as Luke shoved harder, driving to her limits with an urgency she felt boiling in her blood, pounding in her heart. Her walls tightened and seized around him as Luke slammed his hips repeatedly against hers. He drank in each cry he drew from her throat, fucking her like the world was ending. And when he came, cock held locked and perfect inside, he breathed her name and Mara smiled, tilting her head back against the tree. His arms still supported her, her legs still trapped him, and Luke pressed kisses all over her cheeks, lips, eyelids, nose, until their bodies cooled and calmed.

The sunset had escaped their notice, and Mara only realized it was dark when Luke lowered her unsteady feet to the ground. She braced herself on his shoulder a moment, unbalanced more by happiness than gravity. 

“Did you mean it?” she asked, unable to help the question as she refastened the flight suit about her chest.

He didn’t ask what she was referring to. “Of course I meant it.” Luke finished straightening his belt and placed a kiss on the edge of her mouth. “If that’s what you want.”

Dazed by this turn of events, Mara leaned back against the tree they’d just used as a prop, willing her heart to slow just a little so she could think past the hammering of her pulse in her ears. 

“Not…” Mara heard her own voice from a distance, unsure and tentative. Luke’s head cocked at the sound, turning to look at her as he tossed his dirt and leaf-covered cloak over one arm. “…not all the time. But maybe…”

His eyes twinkled in the night, lips parting in that damn smile that turned her legs and resolve to Bephorin noodles. They all _did_ have that same smile, she had to admit. But it looked the best on Luke.

“…but sometimes,” he finished for her, a hint of mischief in the words. Luke held out a hand, which Mara accepted, letting him pull her away from the tree and to his side. One arm looped around her waist as he kissed her firmly. “I understand.”

“Thank the Force,” Mara said, the words escaping before she could help it. Luke laughed softly as they started hand-in-hand back to his clones.

~~

Three weeks later, Mara lay in a tangle of hard limbs and silken sheets in one of Karrde’s hidden outposts on Polanis. She took a second to figure out what had awoken her, extricating herself from under Marv’s arm to peek at the entryway. Omar had just come in with a lunch tray and two bottles of the famous local wine—the clink of bottles the most likely culprits for disturbing her sleep.

“Hi,” he mouthed with a smile. She smiled back, shifting to make room for him. The majority of the floor was carpeted with enormous, luxurious cushions, and scattered with more efficiently replaceable covers. Yet somehow it didn’t have the tacky, harem-like impression it should have... It was just comfortable, and practical, and everyone had their own quarters if private rest was preferable to a group event.

She wasn’t hungry, not for food anyway, but accepted a glass of the fermented beverage. It was cool, and it was easy to get overheated sleeping with the clones. Their bodies seemed to run hotter than the average human—although Luke was a walking sun as well. Just as probable that it was genetic and had nothing to do with cloning.

A featherlight kiss at the base of her spine sent welcome shivers rippling over her skin, and Mara handed the now-empty glass back to Omar before turning around to meet Luke’s lips. His hands slid over her hips, sending a wash of desire to her core.

“Ready for another round?” he grinned against her mouth.

“With you, always,” she smiled. “Or five against one again?”

“You always keep up,” he pointed out. Marc had been listening, apparently, and positioned himself flat behind Mara, so Luke could roll her back onto his chest. 

“Mmm…” Mara wriggled comfortably into her man-made mattress, bowing into Marc’s hands as they teased her nipples into points.

Marg was paying attention, always planning the best moment to attack, and decided now was the ideal time to strike. He crawled between her legs, dribbling some of the wine over her stomach and thighs and then proceeding to lick and suck where the droplets flowed…the dip of her belly button, the creases of her hips, then moved to the line of her cunt.

Her ass pressed and writhed against Marc’s erection as Marg reached her clit, sucking hard to please and torment. Luke bent down beside her, placing another kiss on her lips, letting her taste the wine on his own tongue. 

“Come on then,” she breathed. He smiled into her kiss, unrestrained lust coursing through their bond. Sometimes Luke made her wait for him, but not today. Mara immediately wrapped her lips around the head of his cock as he straddled her head. Straining, her thumbs traced the V at his hips as she lifted her neck to take him deeper. Beneath her, Marc’s cock grew even more rigid, impatient against her asshole. 

“Here,” someone said—she thought it was Marv but it was rarely a sure thing—and then a firm finger ringed the lube around her perineum, pressing further, preparing her for more. More pleasure for her, definitely, but the ability to provide more pleasure too. Mara remembered the first time they all had come inside her, within seconds of one another, how powerful she felt. It was _her_ body, _her_ sex that brought all five to this point, that made them growl and sigh in pleasure as her muscles trapped and released them. She could keep them on the precipice of orgasm, she could imprison them between her fingers, thighs, ass, and lips. It was heady, to be the center of desire for so many men—the unrestricted giving of herself in exchange for nothing more complicated than sensual worship.

A different hand slid two, then three fingers into her already dripping cunt, stretching her. More lube. As their numbers had grown, they’d gotten more creative and spontaneous. Mara had no doubt she could accommodate, but was curious as to what was on the agenda this time…

She focused on Luke, the taste of his skin, stretched tight along his length, the feel of his ass flexing beneath her fingers as he rolled his hips, fucking her mouth. Marg’s tongue shifted, a sweet grazing of his teeth along her clit as his fingers withdrew. He spun to the side, making way for another clone to get into place. Omar knelt between her thighs, placing her ankles to the outside of Marc’s hips, then guided Marc’s ready cock into her ass. Mara was prepared, and Marc was overeager—after the initial resistance, he took her completely, hands still kneading her breasts, fingers clenching in bliss as he bottomed out. She looked up at Luke with her mouth full of him, inhaling sharply through her nose at the stretch. Luke paused and waited for her to give the slightest nod. At her signal, in tandem, he pressed slowly down her throat as Omar worked his way into her cunt. She groaned at the sensations, turning her body and brain to nothing more than pure feeling. Luke’s thick cock was, of course, shared by all his clones—the discomfort of initial penetration always took a second to dissipate, even when it wasn’t a three-way incursion. 

Luke’s amusement at her observation rolled through the Force as his fingers pushed through her hair, fisting in the locks as he met her eyes.

“All right?” he asked. At the question, they all stilled, waiting.

She nodded again, swallowing a smile as he pulled back, then a hard jerk into her mouth, knowing simple comfort wasn’t what she liked. Mara wanted to be worked in bed, participatory, yes, but feeling useful—indeed, feeling used—only added to her stimulation. Her multiple lovers had quickly seen the advantage of that attitude. Marg played with her clit, occasionally dipping his head to lap up the mixture of wine, edible lube, and desire as Omar increased his tempo. Not wanting to neglect anyone, she tapped with one hand blindly on Marg’s leg, indicating he should reposition. She could feel his contentment as his cock weighed hard and heavy in her palm. Pumping in sync with the tempo of the men in her holes, Mara squeezed and rubbed the slippery shaft through her fingers. Someone else guided her hand on the opposite side, where she wrapped around Marv’s erection, keeping him primed as she fisted both cocks. The men moved concertedly, finding an even, faster rhythm that only Luke seemed to defy. He teased her with drawn out withdrawals and sudden thrusts between her lips, turning rougher as saliva dripped from their borders.

Marc’s hands held her hips as he put his feet flat and knees bent, fucking her ass from below. His fingers overlapped with Omar’s as he braced himself against her, driving deep. Her body opened to all, serving and delighting in the triple onslaught, having learned how to smoothly receive them through lots of delicious practice. As the sensory overload increased, the clones in her hands took more control as well, capturing her fingers with their own to maintain the friction. Marg still glided the pad of a finger between her legs at times, making Mara jerk in pleasure and tighten around the cocks in her body. She sighed as Luke eventually pulled from her mouth, her lower half still subject to the clones’ glorious assault. Licking her lips, Mara gave him a wicked grin as the “original” left his position over her head. Omar took his cue, withdrawing so Luke could replace him between her thighs. 

Mara’s fingers squeezed Marv’s cock gently, turning her head to draw him to her lips. Oral was his favorite. Ramming his cock gracelessly down her throat, Marv gasped as she sucked and twirled along his length. He had been the easiest to figure out, although none of them were particularly complicated in bed, she thought with a self-satisfied smirk.

When Luke entered her, Mara’s eyes drifted closed. It was hard to decide sometimes whether to let the visual overwhelm, or lose herself in every other sense. They all had similar physiques, similar faces, similar dimensions… but Luke belonged in her cunt, and they all knew it. He read her body the best, knew the angles that drove her to the cusp of unbearable euphoria, perfectly timed every stroke of her clit or scrape of teeth. The sublime drag of his cock reset the rhythm, and his clones easily adapted to it. Omar slid his cock between the fingers Marv had vacated, coated with her slick. Mara pumped roughly along his shaft, her other hand still busy opposite—Marg preferred a lighter touch, his balls brushing her nails as she ran fingertips delicately over his length. He whispered encouraging nonsense, periodically bending over to plant a kiss along her arm or at the joint of her shoulder.

Marc, who had held still while Luke claimed her cunt, began to move once more. The hard cock plugging her ass pressed deeper, and she clenched around him, feeling the flex of Marc’s shaft respond to the pressure. Luke’s thrusts grew more forceful, seeking new depths, driving her shoulder blades harder into the clone at her back, sending Marc’s cock to its maximum beneath her. The clone groaned at the incredible tightness—she could sense he was close, as was Marv, his cock gliding along her tongue at an almost furious speed, his hands tangling in the hair over her ears. Luke bent to taste one nipple as Marc pinched the other, the combination making her twist and whimper in bliss, plied by five cocks and wonderfully overstimulated. Being so full, so many men devoted to her… she’d never have imagined it in her wildest dreams.

Sucking in her cheeks and lashing up with her tongue was enough to topple Marv over his edge, his cock so far down her throat she barely tasted come as she swallowed. Her lips continued to tease as he pulled out, making the clone moan at the hypersensitivity. Smug, she was about to usher another to her mouth, just as a low grunt and a violent snap of hips below signaled Marc’s impending orgasm. One of his hands moved to rub her clit as he flooded her with heat. Mara let her head fall back against his shoulder, smiling as he kissed her cheek, still rooted inside. Looking back up to meet Luke’s adoring eyes, she tilted her neck in wordless question, freeing the cocks in her hands as she waited to see what her Jedi had in mind.

Taking advantage of the brief respite, Luke bent down, lips capturing hers and long fingers curving around her hips. Marc slipped out as Luke rolled her off, his own cock still buried inside as he switched positions, taking Mara with him to settle on top. She leaned down over him, propped up on cramped hands, breasts heavy and reddened from all the attention. Luke sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, then the other, as Mara ground down against his cock, seeking friction and wanting more.

With a smile, Luke released her, waving a hand at Marg. The clone knelt behind her and Mara relaxed, ready to be filled once again, but Marg surprised her—slowly, carefully sinking his entire length against the underside of Luke’s instead of into her ass. He paused as she stiffened. They’d done this before—she could handle it, and now that extra lube in her cunt made sense. Still, a few Force-assisted breaths couldn’t hurt, and Mara took a moment to steady herself. Knowing she was as relaxed as she’d ever be, she turned and met Marg’s eyes over her shoulder, giving a smile. He pressed close, placing a reverent kiss on her lips before pressing deeper in her well-stretched cunt. The Force—or the lube—had done its work, and she moaned in satisfaction as Marg’s cock moved along with Luke’s inside her. Together, they set a leisurely, rocking pace until Mara thought she’d die from being so magnificently fucked. Every movement was exquisite inside her aching walls, the constricted feel of one cock hard against the other. The impossible, wonderful fullness took on an almost desperate shade as Mara arched her back and closed her eyes once more.

Cries fell louder from her lips as Luke and Marg jointly fucked her, until Omar muffled them with his cock. Mara could still taste her own juices, enjoying the scent of her own passion on his skin. The other clones, after their climaxes, weren’t idle—hands caressed her breasts, massaged her hips, kissed anywhere she wasn’t being touched. She came twice in this overfilled configuration, once, a violent short-circuiting of control as Marg screwed a finger into her all-too empty ass as he drove deep in her cunt, and again when Luke shifted just slightly below her, forcing his tightly-squeezed cock hard against that perfect, wonderful spot inside her walls.

She screamed against Omar’s cock in her mouth as the second orgasm shattered her from within; they all loved the sounds of her climax, and Mara wasn’t self-conscious about being as loud as the pleasure dictated. Omar withdrew so they all could hear it, then slammed back down her throat, already close to his orgasm. Mara hung on to Omar’s waist as he fucked her mouth, but the sound of her coming had almost sent Marg to his own finish. Mara felt him battle to delay as his hands left her ass. She was still spasming and clenching around both cocks in her cunt as Marg pulled out to take advantage of Omar peaking. He positioned himself at her head, and Mara reached for his sensitive cock. Opening her mouth wider, flattening her tongue and relaxing her throat, she took the second clone’s cock together with the first, receiving the mingled flavor of them between her lips.

She sighed in contentment as they withdrew, wiping at her lips with a trembling wrist as some spend dripped from her chin. Beneath her, Luke continued fucking her with a grin, his stamina far exceeding the others’. Mara grinned back, his approval giving her strength to take initiative, riding him harder. But he would outlast her. He usually did.

The clones stayed, hands and lips roaming her body, devoted and dedicated to her as the centerpiece as Luke circled his hips and shoved up, in, harder and faster. Mara’s muscles finally started to protest as she bent down, lying atop him. She kissed the racing pulse in his neck, whispering into his ear as he wrapped her in his arms.

“My legs don’t work anymore.”

Luke understood, because he always did, and smoothly flipped her onto her back. Mara admittedly preferred this position—her hands were free to touch, to grip and hold him closer, and she could grind against him—if she still had the energy, joined as perfectly as two people could be joined. Her hands settled on his face finally, that bone structure, those handsome features duplicated around the room, in the “good copies” they had rescued, but none somehow as attractive as the original.

His stamina _was_ incredible, but it wasn’t infinite. Not long after, Luke ducked his head for a kiss as he came with a hard thrust inside her, thighs contracting, arms tensing from the strength of it. Utterly content, Mara simply lay, watching him through heavy lids, a smile that felt permanent fixed to her lips.

Collapsing with a quiet groan, Luke took a moment to catch his breath, then placed a tender kiss on her sweat-speckled breastbone. Pushing to his elbows, he arced his neck to plant another on her angular jawline, slowly moving higher, so their faces were level, lips lined up for another soft kiss. She returned it sleepily, a press of mouths, a brush of tongues.

“Mara.”

“Mmm…”

“Will you marry me?”

Her smile broadened. “Which one are you again?”

Luke laughed, pinning her lethargic wrists above her head and her legs with his thighs.

“I’m serious.” 

She met his eyes, and he released her hands. With one finger, she traced the lips she loved, the scar crossing the upper, the slight unevenness of the lower.

“Yes, Luke.”

He kissed her, hard and happy on the lips.

“She said yes?” Marv asked from across the room.

“Of course she said yes,” Marc answered. “They’re soulmates,” he continued, “I’ve seen holos about it.”

“You’ve seen holos about everything,” groaned Marv good-naturedly as everyone agreed.

Mara accepted a towel as Luke rolled to the side, helping her sit up. Omar popped one bottle of Daruvvian champagne and Marg tossed a second to Luke, who caught it without taking his eyes off Mara. He opened it one-handed, letting bubbles cascade onto the already wrecked cushions.

“Promise me one thing?” Mara asked, taking the expensive drink from Luke’s fingers and pulling a swig directly from the bottle. Their bond was open, shields relaxed, and Luke kissed the sweetness from her mouth.

“Of course.” He already knew what she wanted, could feel the joy building in her heart, an echo of his own. “ ‘…And they _all_ lived happily ever after,’” he quipped with a grin. “Just like in Marc’s holos.”

“Perfect,” she smiled, setting the bubbly to the side and pulling the real Luke Skywalker back down into her arms.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Whole Lotta Lukes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29269137) by [GrareRocin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrareRocin/pseuds/GrareRocin)




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